


Afterward

by goodomensblog (just_quintessentially_me), just_quintessentially_me



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Angst with a Happy Ending, Choose Your Own Adventure, Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2020-10-24 12:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 22,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20706080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_quintessentially_me/pseuds/goodomensblog, https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_quintessentially_me/pseuds/just_quintessentially_me
Summary: A Good Omens Choose Your Own Adventure Fic:Dark, acrid mist seeps from the ground, spiraling up, ravenous, as though intent on swallowing up the sun. At it’s center, Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, rises - born of mist and smoke. And there, Crowley stands, one hand on the bookshop door, his back open and unguarded.Aziraphale is lunging, ancient instincts buried in his bones, deeper than marrow, driving him to throw up his arms as he leaps in front of Crowley.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In celebration of 10,000 followers on my Good Omens blog, I embarked on a "choose your own adventure" fic over on tumblr. 
> 
> Here's how it works:  
1\. I’ll write a scene.  
2\. At the end of each scene, you’ll be presented with 2-3 options for what the characters will choose to do next.  
3\. Comment to vote for your choice. I’ll count all votes after the first 24 hours after each update is posted.
> 
> The first six parts have already been written and voted on over on Tumblr. I'm posting them all here now. Once you get to the latest update, feel free to add your vote! I'll add AO3 votes to the ones received on Tumblr :)

Aziraphale is hunched, examining thin, age-stained pages of a first edition copy of _The Waves_, when the bookshop door opens with a whine. Aziraphale _did_ in fact, recently oil its hinges, but in spite of his efforts, the door seems determined to put up a vocal protest every now and again, as if it’s learned it’s owner’s distaste of disturbances. 

Aziraphale recognizes the swift, loping footsteps, however; and the shop’s newest entrant is a disturbance the angel is more than willing to forgive. 

“Don’t tell me you forgot about lunch.”

“Of course I haven’t,” Aziraphale answers, looking up from the book.

Crowley stands inside the open doorway. 

Warm, late morning sunlight encircles his angular figure in a halo of rust-red. Golden eyes peer over the tops of sunglasses, which have slipped halfway down his nose. In the year since the Apoca-Wasn’t, Crowley has let his hair grow out, and as he tilts his head back, pushing the glasses up with a deliberately casual flick of his hand, the bottom ends of auburn waves brush his shoulders.

Aziraphale loses his grip on the page. Forgotten, it slides between his fingers.

Looking at Crowley, all angles and back-lit by sun, Aziraphale decides it’s a striking scene - and were Aziraphale an artist, he should very much like to immortalize this moment with paint and canvas so he might have it to keep and admire later.

“-you alright? ….angel?”

The seconds stretch, and Aziraphale realizes with an embarrassed flush that Crowley is speaking to him. Has been, in fact, for the last thirty-odd seconds.

The demon’s forehead is creased, and his brows are pressing together. Crowley’s weight is shifted forward, ready to move, but as Aziraphale rushes to stand, Crowley turns an aborted step into a forcefully nonchalant lean against the nearest bookshelf.

“Sorry dear. My mind’s still wrapped up in this first edition Woolf, I suppose. A gorgeous text,” Aziraphale says, glancing at Crowley’s slouching silhouette as he shelves _The Waves_ without so much as a look at the book or bookshelf. “Are we late?”

“Course not. Figured you might be nose deep in a book. Came a few minutes early to remind you…and give you a chance to finish up.”

Aziraphale hums, smiling as he pulls on his coat. “Very thoughtful of you, Crowley.”

Slouching more determinedly against the bookshelf, Crowley shoves his hands into his ridiculously shallow pockets and shrugs. “Practical.”

“The two don’t have to be mutually exclusive” Aziraphale says, turning a fond look in Crowley’s direction as he adjusts his coat with a tug.

With a quiet noise of embarrassment, Crowley shoves off the bookshelf and turns on his heel. Hands still tucked in his pockets, he nods toward the door. 

“Shall we?”

“Oh yes, please,” Aziraphale says, and as he follows after Crowley, he can’t entirely ignore the urge to slide his fingers down the demon’s arm and coax his hand from his pocket. 

He doesn’t act on it, of course.

After the business with the foiled apocalypse and fooling Heaven and Hell, Crowley has been, well - _relaxed, _Aziraphale supposes. Why, just the other day he convinced Aziraphale to join him at _a spa_, and the two of them spent the better part of the afternoon poolside, basking, without any vigilant circling on Crowley’s part or so much as a single paranoid look over his shoulder.

It was nice.

And Aziraphale isn’t about to do anything which might risk disrupting Crowley’s newfound peace and throwing the perfectly contented demon off balance.

Heaven - _er_ -_ Someplace_ knows, Crowley deserves all the peace and normalcy he can get. 

And if that requires Aziraphale denying himself the unfortunately persistent impulse to hold Crowley’s hand - _well_. There are much worse fates. 

He and Crowley are alive. And together. 

Those two facts are enough. More than enough. Everything, _anything _beyond those essentials is a luxury - a gift.

Bumping Crowley’s elbow, Aziraphale smiles. “I’m eager to try this new restaurant you’ve discovered.”

Crowley’s lips quirk in an answering half-grin. Shoving through the squeaky door, he steps outside, turning to hold it open for Aziraphale.

“Oh you’ll love it, angel. The things they do with oysters, its -”

A _crack_ rends the quiet morning.

Behind Crowley’s heel, fissures tear through the pavement. 

Dark mist billows from the crevices, and before Crowley can so much as turn, a mist shrouded figure rises. Acrid smoke hisses between Lord Beelzebub’s sharp, white teeth, and their red eyes narrow at the sight of Crowley’s exposed back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upon seeing Beelzebub, Aziraphale:
> 
> 1\. Pushes between Crowley and the Lord of Hell, bodily shielding Crowley from a perceived attack.  
2\. Grabs Crowley’s arm, attempting to pull him back into the safety of the shop.  
3\. Strikes out at Beelzebub, intending to stun them before they can harm Crowley.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Option #1 won that round!

Dark, acrid mist seeps from the ground, spiraling up, ravenous, as though intent on swallowing up the sun. At it’s center, Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, rises - born of mist and smoke. And there, Crowley stands, one hand on the bookshop door, his back open and unguarded. 

Aziraphale is lunging, ancient instincts buried in his bones, deeper than marrow, driving him to throw up his arms as he leaps in front of Crowley. 

Several things, then, happen nearly at once. Even if the surrounding humans _weren’t _instinctively driven to avert their eyes and attentions from the standoff happening before them, they_ still_ would not have been physically capable of registering the speed at which the following exchange occurred.

There is a sharp intake of breath and a garbled noise of panic behind Aziraphale. Where they press together, Crowley is rigid, every angled line of his long body tensed - and Aziraphale can feel his body twisting, splayed fingers grasping at the angel’s shoulder, yanking -

Beelzebub is faster.

A soot-stained boot twists, grinding pavement to dust as the Lord of Flies moves-

Aziraphale throws his hands up.

Crowley’s fingers, white-knuckled and grasping, drag at Aziraphale -

And Beelzebub stumbles, knees buckling as the glow in their eyes flickers and extinguishes. 

Aziraphale’s hands, which he’d raised to fend off the demon lord’s attack, catch Beelzebub as they drop.

Beelzebub’s dark mist is dispersing, hissing as it falls away from their body; and Aziraphale holds them in much the same way as one might hold a tranquilized wolverine - that is to say, _with care_. Aziraphale has an arm gingerly hooked around Beelzebub, supporting beneath their arms. The demon lord’s neck is curved and their head dangles forward, limp. 

Crowley’s hands are no longer attempting to drag Aziraphale back to the safety of the shop. The angel can feel Crowley pressing into him, fingers clutching at his arm as the demon peers over his shoulder.

Carefully,_ carefully_ Aziraphale extends a hand.

Crowley’s touch reflexively squeezes.

With two fingers, Aziraphale tips back Beelzebub’s head.

Crowley sucks in a breath. “What the _bless_.”

The mist, which had wrapped Beelzebub like a second skin, has all but faded. Beneath bright sun, four long gashes weep red. The left side of their face is flayed. The gashes, which are deep as they are fresh, run from Beelzebub’s dark hairline to the soft, fleshy underside of their chin.

Aziraphale blinks, and then blinks again. As though it will somehow change the reality before him. When he blinks a third time, and Beelzebub is still inconveniently bleeding out in his arms. Aziraphale heaves a deep sigh.

Licking his lips, he presses a hand up under Beelzebub’s chin. As Aziraphale’s hand glows, the demon lord’s skin bubbles, reacting to the ethereal healing touch. The bleeding does, however, slow.

Crowley is rigid, white knuckled fingers clinging to him like a vice.

“Angel,” he says, voice low and insistent. “_Drop_ Beelzebub. We’ve gotta go.”

“Not that dropping a Lord of Hell _isn’t_ an appealing option, but aren’t you the least bit curious-”

“_Aziraphale_,” Crowley hisses, and the hand at Aziraphale’s shoulder is pressing him forward, guiding him toward the Bentley. 

Aziraphale, who hasn’t let go of Beelzebub, stumbles awkwardly with the demon lord in his arms.

“Crowley, hold on. _Wait_-”

Crowley spins around. Yanking Beelzebub’s head back again, Crowley flings out a hand, gesturing at the demon’s flayed skin. “Does that look like the work of an angel to you?”

“Well _of course_ it’s not. Look at the shape of them, they were obviously made by-”

“Claws. Something demonic. _Yeah_.”

“Crowley, I don’t understand. Demons fight - you told me that demons sometimes even-”

Groaning, Crowley paces a tight circle. “Yeah demons fight. Demons, however, don’t nearly _do in_ a _Lord _of Hell,” Crowley says, and stops, pointing emphatically at Beelzebub. “We. Do. Not. Want to be here when_ whatever_ did that to good old Beelz climbs up, looking to finish the job.”

_Which begs the question-_

“What _exactly _do you think did this, Crowley?”

Raking a hand through his hair, Crowley twitches, and shifts, shaking his head. “I-”

“_Satan_,” Beelzebub croaks.

Aziraphale, despite his earlier protests, nearly drops the demon in his surprise.

Crowley stills, hands loose and dangling at his sides.

And when the word registers, Aziraphale, despite six thousand years of practice, finds he’s quite forgotten how to breathe.

“Sorry,” he manages, and clears his throat. “_What was that?_”

Beelzebub’s lip curls. Squinting blearily up, they whisper, “_I said_, Satan _did it_.” And then their eyelids flutter. Their pale skin wrinkles as their brows draw together. “He - uh - something’s wrong with him.”

Breath returns without Aziraphale’s permission, and promptly leaves him in a gust of nervous laughter.

“Well yes, I should _think_ there is something _wrong_ with him-”

“No, you _idiot_,” Beelzebub says, coughing, “There’s something _really wrong_ with him. It’s…different this time. Says he’s going to destroy it. And I believe him.”

“…destroy _what?_”

Aziraphale watches, out of the corner of his eyes, as Crowley circles them.

“_Everything_.”

At his back, Crowley hisses a curse.

“I…,” Beelzebub wheezes, and heaves a fortifying breath, “I think…I think I’ve got an idea…of how to stop him. But he’s -” they halt, teeth clenching as they groan, “he’s - _gah_, he’s _coming_ for me.”

Behind him, Crowley gasps. 

Aziraphale turns to see Crowley bracing a hand on the Bentley. His shoulders are hunched, head dipped forward. 

“Crowley-”

“We’ve gotta go, angel. We have to hide. _Now._”

And then Aziraphale feels it - a dark, malignant energy, pulsing - _rising_.

“Beelzebub-”

“Yeah, _I know._ We might _need_ them,” Crowley says with obvious distaste. “Bring them along. Just for _someone’s _sake, _hurry!_”

By the time Aziraphale has tossed Beelzebub in the back seat and flung himself into the passenger side, Crowley is trembling, bent over the wheel.

“Can you-”

“_Course_,” Crowley snaps, and throws the car into drive. It growls, leaping into motion. “The Bentley can get us anywhere we need to go, but we’re gonna have to find a _damn good_ place to hide.”

Aziraphale stammers, bracing a hand on the dash as the car roars, accelerating. “There’s Adam Young, of course, in Tadfield. He’s given up his powers, but there might be enough residual…” Aziraphale sucks in a breath as they take a sharp turn, wheels skidding over pavement. “It could be dangerous for him though - for Newton and Anathema as well. We could also go to America. Hide out near where the Dowlings settled. You know the place? There’s enough of a demonic aura there, perhaps, to conceal us - for a little while. At least until-”

From the back seat, Beelzebub groans. 

“_Gabriel_,” they mutter, voice nearly drowned out by the snarling engine.

“_Excuse me?_” Crowley says, golden eyes flashing over the tops of his glasses.

“Find…Gabriel,” Beelzebub says, and moans, sinking back into unconsciousness. 

“_Gabriel_,” Aziraphale says, and even the name leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

He and Crowley share a glance.

“I can’t imagine Gabriel would be keen on helping us.”

Fingers clenching over the wheel, Crowley shakes his head. “Can’t imagine it either.”

Golden eyes flick up, checking the rear-view mirror.

“Angel, I can get us anywhere. Anywhere in the world - and beyond. _Just bloody give me an idea of where to go_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale tells Crowley to go to…
> 
> 1\. Tadfield to enlist the help of Adam, Anathema, and Newton.  
2\. Find Gabriel (preferably while armed with a flaming sword) to ask for his aid.  
3\. America, near where the Dowlings now live and get unlikely help from… Warlock??


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People on tumblr voted option #2

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, at last.

The car is shuddering, tires squealing in protest as Crowley weaves a determined path through congested London streets. Wrenching the wheel, he spares Aziraphale a single, dubious glance.

“I know, _I know_. But we, at the very least, need to find out why Beelzebub is intent on seeking Gabriel’s help.”

A single brow arches over dark glasses. “Hm yeah, _gotta_ be a story there.”

In the back seat of the Bentley, Beelzebub is curled, knees pressed up against their chest. Head tilted back, the long gashes which climb down their neck are exposed. Curled as they are, they look almost - small. 

Not that size has any real bearing on power. As anyone who has encountered a box jellyfish or a room full of screaming kindergartners can tell you - sometimes the scariest things are, in fact, small. And Beelzebub is indeed, a small, very terrifying entity. 

Crowley, sparing a nervous glance in the rear-view mirror, licks his lips, and begins ,conversationally, “So…sky’s red.” 

Following his gaze, Aziraphale observes that the sliver of space where rooftops meet sky, is indeed, an alarming shade of maroon.

“Is that-”

“_Yep_,” Crowley answers, lips popping at the _p._

“Oh. Oh dear. He won’t, um,” Aziraphale says, waving ineffectually, “er, that is - all the _people_-”

“Wouldn’t worry about them, angel,” Crowley says, and takes a hard right turn onto the M25. “Boss man’s probably not sparing the humans a thought at the moment. Doubt they’ll even notice him.”

“Oh. Well. Small mercies, I suppose.”

Crowley, bending over the wheel, makes a vague noise of assent. Seemingly of its own accord, the Bentley’s horn blares as the demon circumvents a slow driver.

“So - Gabriel,” Crowley says, stroking a placating hand over the wheel. “How the _bloody heaven_ are we supposed to find the bastard?_ And quickly_.”

“Well,” Aziraphale says, “I do have an idea. Though I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale’s plan for finding Gabriel involves-
> 
> 1\. Consecrated ground (rip Crowley and Beelzebub’s feet)  
2\. SPACE (Bentley rocket ship is a-go)  
3\. Angel Blood Summoning Circle (I mean, Aziraphale doesn’t need all of his blood… right??)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Options #1 and #3 both got substantial votes, so I combined them a bit :)

“I don’t like this.”

The drowsy Cumbrian hills swallow Crowley’s words. Somewhere, in the distance, a lone bird warbles a somnolent melody. The Bentley is parked at the edge of a meandering country road. Brushing his fingers over the hood, Crowley glares at the surrounding countryside.

“We’ll come back for her, darling,” Aziraphale says, helping Beelzebub from the back of the car.

“I’m talking about the _other part_ of the plan, angel.”

Huffing a breath, Aziraphale hauls Beelzebub’s arm over his shoulder - and wonders why on earth _he’s_ the one stuck helping Crowley’s ex boss.

“_Well_,” Aziraphale says, starting up the dew sprinkled hill, swaying demon lord at his side, “the consecrated ground is _not_ ideal, I’ll admit, considering, ah-” he pauses, gesturing between his demon companions. “But, I think it will slow _him_ down substantially. And the more time we have, the better, at this point.”

“Still not the part of the plan I mean,” Crowley says, breath fogging as he lopes up the hillside.

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, sparing him a glance. “The angel blood summoning-”

“Yes _of course_ I’m talking about the _sodding angel blood summoning_,” Crowley hisses.

“It’s perfectly safe-”

Crowley makes a loud sound of derision. 

“Would you both _shut it_,” Beelzebub growls. “I can_ feel _the holiness already. It’s giving me hives.”

Hands pressed in his pockets, Crowley meanders closer, sniffing the air. “Can’t feel it yet.”

“Because you’re a shit demon,” Beelzebub replies, and adds, “It takes a good bit of blood to summon an archangel. It’s not _not _dangerous.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale answers, scanning the valley for the origin of the holiness pulsing through the air. “It’s not like we’ve got many other options. Perhaps if you’d just explain_ why_ we need Gabriel-”

“Keep walking, angel,” Beelzebub snaps.

Bristling, Crowley circles closer, “Don’t call him-”

“Don’t call him _what?_”

“Actually, thinking on it - it’s probably better if you just shut up entirely-”

“I’ll shut _you _up-”

“Quiet. Both of you,” Aziraphale cuts in. “We’re here.”

The parish church is tucked between two sloping hillsides. Green moss has reclaimed it’s walls of dark, damp stone. Two black, arching windows are carved into the front of the church, and they stare out like blank, empty eyes.

“Charming,” Beelzebub mutters.

“It’s old,” Crowley replies, hands still tucked in his pockets. “Humble, unassuming - and holier than St. Paul’s or Notre Dame.”

“Most angels actually prefer the flashier churches, if you’ll believe it,” Aziraphale says, gaze tracing the forgotten stone.

“You don’t,” Crowley says, then clarifies, “Prefer them.”

“No. I’ve always liked the quiet places.”

“Touching as this is,” Beelzebub cuts in, voice dry. “Can we _fucking please_-”

“Yes, alright. Fine,” Aziraphale mutters, and drags Beelzebub along as he marches them forward.

They’ve taken no more than three steps when Beelzebub shudders in his grasp. Cursing violently, the demon lord stumbles, legs folding beneath them. Catching them, Aziraphale feels Beelzebub’s stomach clench as the demon coughs and dry heaves.

Stopping beside the pair, Crowley rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. “Yep. Starting to feel it now.”

Limp, Beelzebub heaves again. Coughing and spitting, they glare up from between sweat drenched bangs. “Have I told you how much I hate you, Crowley?”

“Not today,” Crowley says, and bares his teeth in a sharp, white smile.

“…this isn’t going to work,” Aziraphale says, hauling Beelzebub up as they slump in his grasp. Turning a circle, Aziraphale looks from Crowley and Beelzebub to the ancient church between the hills. 

_It won’t work if he isn’t inside_. And seeing as they’ve yet to even approach the threshold, it’s doubtful Crowley would last in the church for more than a few minutes. Aziraphale isn’t sure Beelzebub would even make it as far as the front door. And they can’t exactly leave Beelzebub outside the holy grounds because _Satan_ is pursuing them. 

But perhaps,_ here _is safe enough. Beelzebub is clearly feeling the effects. If Crowley waits here and holds Beelzebub so they aren’t making contact with the ground, Aziraphale might have enough time to - 

_Yes._ It could work.

“I think-”

“If you’re about to_ even suggest_ going in there, alone, to bleed yourself half to death, kindly shut up and think of something else,” Crowley says, coming to stand at Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Crowley is warm, and his nearness is a balm Aziraphale hadn’t realized he was desperately in need of. Closing his eyes, Aziraphale shifts, and their shoulders press together. 

The air fogs as Aziraphale heaves a long, shuddering breath.

“Alright angel?”

_Yes. Er - no. Maybe._

_It depends_, Aziraphale supposes, on if the new, arguably insane, idea taking form in his mind, _actually works_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Two demons and an angel walk into a church….”
> 
> Aziraphale’s arguably crazy plan involves:
> 
> 1\. Bestowing a minor blessing on Crowley and Beelzebub (Yes it will hurt. Awfully. But it might act like a temporary vaccination and lessen the effects of the consecrated ground. For a very, very short time).  
2\. Crowley picking up Beelzebub and Aziraphale picking up Crowley (aka the piggy back ride in which no one wins) to at least get them into the church, and hoping like heck Crowley can stand on his own once they are in there ((this one is inspired by skcirthinquememen ‘s fantastic art on tumblr))  
3\. BOTH 1 and 2  
4\. NEITHER - Aziraphale insists on going in alone


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #3 won!

“Crowley, dear, are you _sure_ you wouldn’t rather wait -”

Crowley’s answer is a long, withering look. 

“You honestly expect me to wait outside while you bleed out in a summoning ritual.”

“For the record,” Beelzebub adds, from their perch on Crowley’s shoulders. “I’d prefer to wait outside.”

“Yeah, well you can’t even manage to stand on your own, so you don’t get a vote,” Crowley says, and gleefully gives his shoulders a little shake.

Hissing, Beelzebub digs their nails into his jacket. 

“Hold still,” Aziraphale commands, rubbing his hands together. The minor blessing will act like a vaccination - in theory - and should give the demons enough holy resistance to last in the church for a few minutes.

“I apologize,” Aziraphale says, lifting his palms. “This will hurt. Quite a bit.”

Lip curling, Beelzebub snarls. “Just get it over with.”

Aziraphale looks to Crowley.

Crowley shifts, centering himself. Looking up, he nods and gives a double thumbs up. “_Fire away.”_

Aziraphale does.

Biting back a shriek, Beelzebub shudders, pounding a fist on Crowley’s shoulder. 

Crowley, wincing beneath the strikes, hops from foot to foot, shaking out his hands. 

“Yeeowch! That’ll wake you up!”

Aziraphale reaches for him, but drops his arm, thinking better of it. Wringing his hands, he watches Crowley pace. 

“Are you-”

“Yep,” Crowley says, pale and shivering. “Fine. Totally fine.”

“My dear, I’m so sorry-”

“Nope. None of that. It’s a - a rush. Like dunking your head in ice water. Can’t believe we’ve never tried this before.”

Holding Crowley’s gaze, Aziraphale manages a small smile.

From their precarious perch on Crowley’s shoulders, Beelzebub sneers, rolling their eyes.

“I can _feel_ the blessing fading. Would you assholes get a move on?” 

Before Aziraphale can respond, the surrounding forest erupts with the deep, bone chilling howls of countless beasts. Between the trees, dark, bristling shadows lope, circling the holy ground.

Crowley curses, colorfully.

“Hell hounds,” Beelzebub says, confirming Aziraphale’s fears. “He’s tracking us.”

“Let’s ah - get on with it, then,” Aziraphale says, giving the shadowy hounds one last look before turning to the church. “Crowley - will you be okay to-”

“I’ll manage,” Crowley says, still eyeing the circling beasts.

The walk to the church is slower than Aziraphale would like - especially considering the limited effectiveness of Aziraphale’s minor blessing. But Crowley, despite his prior assurances, slows as they approach the door.

Sweat dampens his forehead and shallow breaths shiver between pale lips. On his shoulders, Beelzebub is curled in on themselves, shaking, nearly to the point of tipping from their perch on Crowley’s shoulders.

They are nearly at the door when Crowley stops. His hand snaps out, snatching at Aziraphale before the angel can pass

“Angel, please,” he says, grasping Aziraphale’s arm like a vice. 

Aziraphale looks from his trembling fingers, to his sweat drenched shirt, and finally, to shaking legs.

“Crowley. Dear, be reasonable. This is far enough,” Aziraphale says, stern. He _will not_ watch Crowley burn himself up attempting to enter an ancient, holy church_._ “Wait here. I’ll call out to you if something is amiss.”

The grip on his arm doesn’t loosen. Closing his eyes, Crowley grits his teeth and takes another trembling step. And then another. All of the color has fled from the demon’s face, and Aziraphale can’t bear it.

Stepping closer, Aziraphale flutters his hands for a moment before giving in to the impulse to scoop Crowley up. 

As he lifts the demon up, cradling him bridal style, Beelzebub hisses, scrambling up onto Aziraphale’s shoulders.

Off the ground, Crowley seems to have at least regained some color. Clutching at Aziraphale’s coat, he stares up, a pink flush burning atop his cheeks and nose. 

“Better?” Aziraphale asks, cradling the demon against his chest.

Swallowing, Crowley manages a nod.

“Good. I’m taking you back.”

Aziraphale turns before Crowley can protest, and - 

The Hell Hounds have abandoned the darkness of the forest and are slinking across the lawn. Their massive legs are trembling, and smoke curls off their disintegrating forms - but the beasts are progressing, slowly and inevitably toward the church.

Clutching Crowley more tightly against his chest, Aziraphale stares, mouth agape.

“_How?_”

“_He’s _feeding them his own strength,” Beelzebub mutters from their perch on Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Hurry up and get us inside.”

“But inside-”

“We’ll manage, angel,” Crowley says. “They’re coming.”

Crowley’s hand is a solid pressure against his chest, and as Aziraphale walks into the dark church, footsteps echoing, Crowley’s fingers clench around the lapels of his coat.

“I’ll have to, er-” Aziraphale stops, helpless.

“It’s okay. Put me down,” Crowley says, voice gentle.

“I could - a bench -”

“Won’t make a difference. Not in here.”

Aziraphale, his arms full of demon, turns a circle, surveying the dark, damp space.

“Angel, hurry it up,” Beelzebub says, shuddering and clawing at his shoulders. “The hounds.”

With a whispered apology, Aziraphale gingerly lowers Crowley to the floor. 

Crowley’s jaw clenches; his lips spasm - and then he’s rolling his shoulders, straightening up.

“Yeah s’not so bad,” he says, voice tight. 

On Aziraphale’s back, Beelzebub has begun to shake. 

“Here - Crowley.”

With Beelzebub supported by Crowley, Aziraphale pushes aside a pew. The stone floor is unbroken - and it’s clean enough, Aziraphale thinks, kicking aside dirt and leaves.

Outside, Hell Hounds whimper and snarl.

He doesn’t have a knife, but he doesn’t need one. The pews are ancient, falling apart from age and the elements. Sliding his hand over a jagged edge of wood, he yanks back, easily slicing a jagged gash in the flesh of his palm.

Crowley winces, pulling down his glasses as he watches the golden blood pool in Aziraphale’s palm. 

When Aziraphale bends, tracing out the symbols with his fingers, he’s aware of Crowley shifting, hopping from one foot to the other. In his arms, Beelzebub is pale and sweating. The demon lord, panting, has begun to writhe.

“Almost there,” Aziraphale mutters, fumbling to scrawl out a long series of runes.

“It’s okay,” Crowley says, strained. “Take your time. Do it right.”

Beelzebub, gasping for air, violently yanks at their tie. “Yeah. Ignore that. Hurry _the fuck up_.”

The growling outside is, impossibly, even closer.

The Hell Hounds _should not _have been able to make it this far. At this rate, they might survive long enough to break through the door.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale calls, unwilling to look up from a circle half complete.

“Er, yeah. I’ll, uh, brace the door.”

As Aziraphale traces the last lines of the golden circle, there is a groan, then a crash as something heavy settles against the door.

Panting, Crowley says, tremulous, “That’ll-” a deep breath, “That’ll slow ‘em down.”

“Almost done,” Aziraphale chants, “Almost done. Hold on, dear.”

Kneeling at the edge of the circle, Aziraphale opens his hand. From his palm, golden blood flows. 

His fingers are drenched; positioning them over the bottom-most sigil, he watches as the blood pours from the tips of his fingers into the thick lines traced onto stone. As the blood flows, spilling and spreading throughout the design, slowly, slowly, the runes awake with a flickering, ethereal glow.

Bracing his hand, Aziraphale bends as his blood pours, uninterrupted from his palm to the circle. 

It is nearly done._ Soon_, he thinks, dazed. Soon, there will be enough.

Steeling himself, he pictures the angel in question, and speaks. 

“Archangel Gabriel, Messenger of the Lord - I, Aziraphale, Principality, Former Guardian of the Eastern Gate,” Aziraphale says, and draws in a short breath, “I summon thee.”

The circle, glowing brighter, pulsates with light. Wincing, Aziraphale steadies his hand as the blood pours, unrestrained from his palm. The circle is swallowing it up, demanding more.

Aziraphale hunches over, straining to hold his hand steady.

_Any moment_, Gabriel should come. There is plenty of blood in the circle, he thinks. He’s lost track of how much he’s lost - but there _must_ be enough. 

The circle is swimming in his vision and a sharp buzzing fills his ears. 

Aziraphale sways.

“_Wait._” Beelzebub’s voice is sharp and distant - as though Aziraphale is beneath water and they are atop the surface, shouting down at him from above.

But that can’t be right. Why would a _demon_ be looking down on _him_? Aziraphale thinks, dazed.

“Let me down - Crowley, _move_!” Beelzebub is shouting. “Gabriel - _that dick._ Break the angel from the circle, _now!_ That _bitch _of an archangel is trying to kill him.”

And then there are two sets of hands on him. Aziraphale’s palm is extended, blood pouring out, and he watches, distantly concerned as Crowley, and then Beelzebub wrench at his arm. It is immobile - immovable. Blood spills, relentless. 

“Aziraphale, _shit_.”

Crowley is at Aziraphale’s back, one arm wrapped around him, the other tugging roughly at his extended hand.

“Pull him free,” Beelzebub commands, “I’ll break the _damn summoning_.”

And then there is a horrible, wrenching pressure. Crowley is muttering, hot breath brushing Aziraphale’s neck. Something in his arm pops. Still, his hand doesn’t budge. And then Crowley is violently cursing, and the room is spinning - black spots dance in Aziraphale’s vision. 

He has the distant, awful realization that Crowley may be watching him die.

As Aziraphale slumps, sinking into Crowley’s shaking arms, he watches Beelzebub, hands crackling with flame strike at the circle.

Aziraphale blinks, and when he opens his eyes, Beelzebub has fallen to a knee. One hand is braced against the ground, and the skin is bubbling, melting from their fingers. 

Screaming in fury, the demon lord strikes out at the circle again, and when the flames sputter and die against the ethereal light, Beelzebub, shuddering, sinks down. On the ground, the demon screeches, back arching to escape the searing stone.

Aziraphale reaches out - or, tries to. His one hand is stuck to the circle, and the other won’t obey him. 

Crowley is over him, under him - everywhere. Aziraphale can feel him, hear him, smell him. Crowley’s hand is on his wrist, his fingers futilely trying to stem the flow of blood where it is being drawn from his palm. The demon is shaking, and Aziraphale has his second horrifying realization - Crowley, kneeling on consecrated ground to hold Aziraphale, must be burning up beneath him.

“Crowley - _Crowley,_” Aziraphale slurs._ Go_, he tries to say. _Leave me_. _Please._

Writhing on the floor, Beelzebub claws at their neck - at their face. Old gashes, freshly opened, leak dark blood. Trickling between grooves in stone, it seeps into the sigils, polluting ethereal gold.

The summoning circle flickers once, and then the runes ignite with a white, holy light. The air is humming, vibrating with pressure. As the pressure grows - heavy and terrible - the hum morphs into a piercing whine and - 

Blindingly white light floods the circle, and a glowing creature strikes down, shaking the foundations of the church.

When Gabriel steps out of the circle, angel and demon blood smears beneath his black leather shoes.

“Okay, what _the fuck_,” Gabriel snaps. 

Violet eyes, sharp and glowing, shift to the church door. Shuddering and nearly buckling in, it cracks, the horrific baying of Hell Hounds cacophonous behind it.

Aziraphale, blinking groggily, is vaguely aware of Crowley hissing in triumph as Aziraphale’s arm pulls loose of the circle. There is immediate, forceful pressure on the pulsing wound.

Beelzebub, shoes scraping ineffectually against stone, lifts a shaking hand and points a single finger at Gabriel. 

“Gab - Gabriel. Get us… out of here,” they croak, shuddering. 

Gabriel starts, head whipping toward the voice.

Panting, Beelzebub chokes out, “you - you owe me, _you dick_,” before immediately slumping back, words disintegrating into an anguished shriek as they thrash against holy stone.

Gabriel is stumbling forward, reaching a hand out - when the door buckles in. Hell Hounds, igniting as they step into the church, shriek and snap, baying painfully - madly, as they charge into the room.

Gabriel lifts a staying hand, white wings materializing at his back. The dogs, blocked by a golden, ethereal shield, throw themselves at the obstacle, snarling and snapping. 

The first layer of the golden shield cracks.

Stepping back, Gabriel looks around, taking stock of the angel and demons littering the floor - and claps his hands.

* * *

Crowley opens his eyes to white.

Scrambling, he finds himself in a sitting room. And Aziraphale - 

Aziraphale is beside him, limp and lifeless on the floor. 

Flinging himself up, he grabs for the angel. 

Aziraphale is cold - pale. His palm is still wrapped with the inner lining of Crowley’s jacket, but the wound is bleeding, golden blood leaking through. 

Crowley is dizzy, the burned skin of his legs screaming as he cups beneath Aziraphale’s jaw.

“Aziraphale, _angel,” _Crowley, mutters, fingers fumbling, tracing cold skin. “Come on. You can heal yourself. You’re an angel - it’s - it’s your thing. Aziraphale. _Please -_ _angel-_”

“He’s lost too much blood. Can’t do much of anything now,” Gabriel mutters.

Crowley whips around.

Gabriel is standing, arms folded, frowning down at Beelzebub. 

The demon lord is unconscious, breathing dangerously slowly as the white couch stains a deep red beneath them.

“Gabriel.” Crowley says, spitting his name like a curse.

Violet eyes flick up. 

“Aziraphale will die, demon. An angel can’t lose that much blood and survive it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Injured and clutching Aziraphale, who is dying, in his arms, Crowley…
> 
> 1\. Attacks Gabriel - the archangel has healing powers, and Crowley will be damned, again, if he doesn’t force Gabriel to use them to somehow, somehow save Aziraphale.   
2\. Begs Gabriel to save Aziraphale - because Crowley will give anything, anything and everything to save Aziraphale’s life.  
3\. Bargains with Gabriel - Crowley knows Gabriel didn’t show up for Aziraphale and Crowley. He and Beelzebub have history - or something. Crowley will help Beelzebub, but only if Gabriel helps Aziraphale.  
4\. Crowley, desperate, attempts to use his own demonic tricks to save Aziraphale’s life.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #3 won - again!

“Aziraphale will die.” 

Gabriel’s voice is distant, a buzzing white noise in Crowley’s subconscious. 

“An angel can’t lose that much blood and survive it.”

Aziraphale is limp, hollowed out. Impossibly - awfully, pale and _breakable_. Crowley’s hands press beneath his jaw, trembling against the chill, terrifying stillness beneath his skin. 

Aziraphale is _cold_, and something in Crowley’s mind is stuck on this fact - a microcosm of the tragedy unfolding, breaking apart like a crushed blossom in his hand. His angel - Aziraphale, herald of all things good and bright - is fading. And Crowley can’t stop it.

Shivering, Crowley looks up.

Gabriel stands, relaxed - casual even - in his pressed, powder-blue suit. Even the mixed blood, gold and crimson, which dotted his shiny, leather shoes, has been miracled away. Arms folded across his chest, Gabriel stares down, frowning in apparent disinterest, at the demon lord bleeding on his white upholstery. 

Aziraphale is cold - and Crowley? 

Crowley burns.

“He wanted your help,” Crowley hisses, and the nails he’s buried in the carpet are shifting into claws. 

Violet eyes lazily flick in his direction. Gabriel blinks.

“He was _asking_ for help and you _bled him out_,” Crowley says, fire licking at the backs of his sharpening teeth. Rage is rising, like the fire in his throat, and he trembles with it.

Crowley’s muscles are tensed, his body a pressed coil, ready to spring - 

And his golden gaze shifts to Aziraphale - soft, white curls matted, lips parted -

Molten rage quells, solidifying into something hard, sharp, and obstinate. 

_Aziraphale. _

In all of this, he is the _only_ thing that matters.

And Crowley’s rage will not save him.

When Crowley brushes his fingers over Aziraphale’s forehead, his nails are blunt and thoroughly human. Adjusting his glasses, Crowley presses up from the floor, slowly rising.

Gabriel has stilled, one hand lifted, as if prepared to draw a celestial weapon from the aether.

“You did this,” Crowley says, the wet burning in his eyes hidden behind dark glasses. “_Fix him_.”

Gabriel’s hand flexes, fingers closing over empty air. Tilting his head, he blinks - then smiles, slow and incredulous. 

“…fix him?” he scoffs.

“Yes,” Crowley snaps, stepping carefully around Aziraphale.

Gabriel moves with him, shifting to lean against the arm of the couch. Crowley’s gaze follows the movement.

“You’re an _angel_,” Crowley says, lips curling around the word. “Heal him. Make it better.”

“You don’t _get it_-”

“And what if I offered to save good old Beelzebrains, over there?” Crowley interrupts. “They’re leaking occult energy all over your couch. Demons - even powerful ones - weren’t made to last on holy ground, and certainly not as long as Beelzebub did - no thanks to you, by the way.”

Gabriel, then, goes very quiet, and very still. 

No more than a breath later, the cool indifference has returned. Leaning back, Gabriel huffs a disbelieving laugh. “You’re offering…to heal your own ally?”

“No - not _mine_,” Crowley says, swaying, hands in his pockets.

“I don’t even want to know what’s going on in that _smarmy _little head of yours-”

“You’re standing between us - me and Beelzebub. A bulky, angelic shield,” Crowley says with a harsh twist of his mouth. “Don’t know if you noticed.” 

Gabriel rolls his eyes, “Look, you can keep-”

“And I seriously doubt you had a change of heart and answered the summons for Aziraphale.”

At that, Gabriel frowns. “_Actually_, that was weird. I got pulled through. Never had that happen before. It _hurt_.”

Crowley, squinting in confusion, flicks a hand - as if to dispel that issue in favor of the more pressing predicament.

“_Regardless,_ Beelzebub was looking for _you_,” Crowley presses. “It was the whole reason we were doing the blasted summoning in the first place.”

Gabriel shrugs.

Shoulders, trembling with renewed rage, Crowley risks a glance over his shoulder.

Aziraphale is splayed out, still and silent - and a shade whiter than before.

Crowley has done his fair share of playing with time, teasing its limits as he catches spare seconds and minutes, watching it pool like sand in the folds of his hands. 

He knows time.

And with every shifting, falling grain, Aziraphale is slipping away from him.

Grinding his teeth together, Crowley rounds on Gabriel.

“_Look_, I can save Beelzebub. But you have to _help him_.”

Gabriel, infuriatingly, has disregarded Crowley entirely. His fingers drum an unsteady rhythm on the couch as he observes the fading demon below.

Beelzebub is pale - nearly as washed out as Aziraphale. The scratches down their face and neck are a stark, brutal red. Their hands, limp and curled, lay on the stained fabric, skin burnt away in strips and patches. There are gaping holes in the fabric of their suit, and Crowley can only assume the holy burns cover more than either he or Gabriel can see.

“Even if I wanted to-,” Gabriel starts, breaking the silence. 

His voice is, impossibly, lacking it’s usual condescension.

“-even if I wanted to, there’s _nothing_ I can do. You can’t just _heal_ angel blood back into existence. It’s our - our essence!”

All of this, it’s distantly familiar; a pale, faded knowledge from a dream long forgotten. 

Crowley is shaking his head, even before Gabriel has finished speaking.

“But - there’s - you-” Crowley stutters, thoughts stalling. Twisting, he turns to look at Aziraphale.

“I was perhaps…hasty,” Gabriel is saying, voice low. “In exacting Heavenly vengeance on Aziraphale. Like I did.”

But Crowley is no longer listening. 

The dream, like a ghost, is curling at the edges of his subconscious - prodding at forgotten depths in his mind. 

_An angelus devoid of blood, is incapable of healing or being healed._

Frowning, Crowley tilts his head.

_Should an angelus be emptied of holy essence - of blood - they must be attended to, immediately. The only remedy is -_

“Blood,” Crowley breathes. “Aziraphale needs blood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mysterious memories from a dream lifetimes old hold the key to saving Aziraphale. Determined to bring Aziraphale back from the brink of death, Crowley…
> 
> 1\. Offers Gabriel a different deal. Crowley will help Beelzebub if Gabriel gives Aziraphale some of his blood.  
2\. Heals Beelzebub (without making a deal). After all Aziraphale did to help Beelzebub, Crowley hopes Beelzebub will force can talk Gabriel into helping Aziraphale.  
3\. Attempts to knock Gabriel unconscious, so he can forcefully take the angel blood needed to save Aziraphale.  
4\. Notices that Aziraphale is rapidly fading. Afraid that his angel is running out of time, Crowley gives Aziraphale some of his own demonic blood. Demon blood was once angelic…right?
> 
> IF YOU'RE AT THE LAST CHAPTER, YOU'RE ALL CAUGHT UP. VOTE FOR YOUR TOP CHOICE :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #4 won by a lot! Here we go!

“Aziraphale needs blood.”

The realization rings, entirely too loud in the pale, silent room.

“Gabriel-” Crowley starts, and he _detests_ even saying his name, but Aziraphale is _dying _and if the Archangel can help - “Angel blood, it’s-”

Gabriel gapes, horrified. Mouth opening and closing in wordless repugnance, he finally manages, “angel blood - it’s not - you don’t - you can’t just _do that!_”

That distant, dream-like knowledge is winding round - teasing the edges of Crowley’s memory. Raking his hands through his hair, he hisses his frustration.

“Look, demon,” Gabriel says, steepling his hands and pressing his fingertips together, “If I could, _I would_, but that kind of bodily mixing - it’s -” Gabriel shivers, “It’s not done.”

“It’s just blood, you-” Crowley cuts himself off. Pressing his white knuckled fist to his lips, he spins to look at Aziraphale.

_He’s dying_.

Looking at Aziraphale, pale and motionless, drained of color - vitality, Crowley knows with a sudden, cold certainty: Aziraphale won’t last the length of an argument with Gabriel. 

Crowley watches the Archangel from the corners of his eyes. 

_If I try to take blood from Gabriel by force, it will take everything I have to subdue him. _

_Too long_, Crowley thinks.

There is then, one choice left.

Heaving a long, slow breath, Crowley kneels at Aziraphale’s side.

He knows what he must do. If he _doesn’t_ do it, Aziraphale will die. But the cost…

Palms up, his fingers curl. His nails press, carving half-moon indentations into his soft, fleshy palms. Blood wells up, deep red - _burnt_. Lips curling in silent revulsion, Crowley shivers, closing his eyes.

_Aziraphale will not forgive you this_, a voice within him mocks - and though Crowley has gotten better about ignoring this particular voice, this time Crowley suspects it might be _right_. 

But even so - _even so_, he cannot lose Aziraphale.

Demon blood is far removed from it’s angelic origins, but -

He has to try.

Aziraphale _can’t _be meant to die here. _Like this._

Bending, Crowley lifts his bloodied hands. A single nail morphs into a claw; and pressing his lips determinedly together, he nicks his wrist.

Before he can think better of it, he slices an identical cut into Aziraphale’s soft flesh.

Behind him, Gabriel makes a sharp noise of protest - but Crowley, cradling Aziraphale’s cool hand, has already pressed their wrists together.

Dark blood flows, trickling between them. 

And - 

Nothing happens.

Crowley, despite his long standing habit of breathing, has entirely forgotten how to draw fresh air into his lungs.

He’s painfully aware that Aziraphale, after all this, may yet die. 

Crowley has no idea what demon blood will do to an angel. Some hopeful part of him imagines his blood entering Aziraphale’s body and purifying beneath the angel’s holy existence. Aziraphale is _good_, and Crowley, squeezing his eyes closed, imagines with all of his being that nothing could exist within Aziraphale that is not also good. If Crowley’s blood is corrupted, Aziraphale, by his very nature, will make it pure. Crowley believes._ He has to believe._

Aziraphale is -

Not moving.

Licking his lips, Crowley redoubles his hold on Aziraphale’s wrist. 

“Demon,” Gabriel says, quiet. “Stop this.”

Crowley mutely shakes his head. 

Beneath him, Aziraphale is laid out, limp and broken. 

He hears it then: 

From the angel’s pale, parted lips, there escapes a thin, rattling breath.

And then - nothing.

Crowley’s gaze traces, frantic, over Aziraphale. 

_He’s not, he’s not - he can’t be._

Crowley bends as if broken. Curling, he presses his forehead against Aziraphale’s unmoving chest. His wrist, dripping, vainly presses against the angel’s.

Crowley is, _Crowley is_ -

_Electrified._

Jolts, white-hot and crackling, climb his arm, pulsing at his shoulder, and coursing through his chest. Gasping, Crowley clutches Aziraphale, muscles trembling as golden heat sears through him.

Beneath him, Aziraphale gasps, back arching off the floor.

The universe is no longer without - it is within, and it is not white, nor black, but every color - every shade imaginable and not, accompanied by a cacophonous trilling, like innumerable wind chimes clattering at once. Faced with everything - and nothing - it would be easy to dissolve, be unmade - if he just let go, gave up, forgot-

Aziraphale’s hand twitches. Soft fingers press around his, squeezing, holding.

Crowley’s eyes fly open.

His wrist is pressed against Aziraphale’s. Where their arms align, gold and burgundy blood drips, mixing. When Crowley, slowly, carefully, draws his wrist back, Aziraphale’s blood, golden and burning, drips at the edge of Crowley’s wound.

And Aziraphale -

Is holding his hand.

Again, Crowley has utterly forgotten how to breathe, because_ Aziraphale_ is sitting up, one arm braced against the floor.

Crowley half expects him to have scales, for his blue eyes to have shifted to red, or his soft white curls to have darkened.

But when he looks, heart in his throat, Aziraphale is as he always was. His white curls are disheveled, and clear blue eyes, round and astonished, look at Crowley.

_Everything has a cost_, Crowley knows._ This too, has cost them something._ _And perhaps it’s worse_, Crowley thinks, _that the cost is not yet a visible transaction._

He’s compelled to grab hold Aziraphale’s face, inspect the blue of his eyes, ask to see the hue of his wings, and he would have, except-

“_Crowley,_” Aziraphale says, his voice is soft and wondering. 

Aziraphale’s fingers tighten, curling around Crowley’s. Lips parting in awe, Aziraphale reaches out, brushing a trembling line down Crowley’s face.

_This is - _Crowley’s thoughts stutter and stall, because_ what he’s done. It’s-_

Lips trembling, Aziraphale smiles, and the exploring fingers curl together, a caressing touch.

Something in Crowley breaks. He’s cracked open, exposed - his very existence, dependent upon that single point of contact.

Breath shuddering out of him, Crowley leans into the touch. 

_“Angel…” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kneeling before Aziraphale, leaning into the angel’s caress, Crowley…
> 
> 1\. Turns his head, brushing his lips against Aziraphale’s hand as he softly berates Aziraphale for nearly dying on him - and pulls back when he realizes what he is doing. (SLOW BURN)  
2\. Reaches for Aziraphale, brushing wondering fingers over his face as he swallows down aching words of relief. He nearly lost Aziraphale and he doesn’t have adequate words to express his heartbreak. (SLOW BURN)  
3\. Caught up in his overwhelming relief, impulsively presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s lips. And probably immediately regrets it. (MEDIUM BURN)  
4\. Remembers that Gabriel watching them - and that he tried to kill Aziraphale. After giving Aziraphale a soft greeting and a warm, lingering look, Crowley turns and punches Gabriel in the face. (THE SLOWEST OF BURNS- BUT GABRIEL GETS PUNCHED)
> 
> Comment to vote :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Including the votes on tumblr, #4 won! BUT many voted #1 and there was a big group who voted for #4 AND #1, so I felt it was only fair to write a little bit of #1 in here too :)

“_Angel_,” he says, and it comes out breathy - trembling; it’s the furthest thing from_ cool_, and Crowley doesn’t care, not even a little bit. Because Aziraphale is sitting up. He is breathing - _smiling_.

Mere moments ago, Aziraphale was, was -_ dying_. And to have Aziraphale here, now, looking at him with those kind, soft eyes, his curious fingers brushing Crowley’s face, it’s -

_Too much_ \- and _yet_, nowhere close to enough. It’s a gasping breath after a lifetime without air; the barest taste of everything Crowley has ever wanted.

Crowley loses himself, for a moment, leaning into the touch. 

“_Angel_,” he repeats, throat aching. “Awfully rude of you,” he says, turning his face, and trembling lips brush skin, “nearly dying on me there.”

Beneath his lips, Aziraphale’s hand gives a little shake.

_A shiver_, Crowley realizes. 

Reality, cold and biting, rushes back.

Crowley flinches, his eyes snapping open.

_Oh god, er - somebody. _

And Crowley is straightening up, scrambling back.

_What on _fucking_ earth am I doing? __Aziraphale has had a _trauma, _and here I am wantonly rubbing my lips all over his hand._

Aziraphale’s hand hovers, still reaching. Flushed and blinking, the angel stares down at it; and there is a little crease between his brows, as if he’s puzzling out some great mystery he’s discovered there, in the lines of his palm.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley starts, voice cracking - because he _doesn’t even know how to begin apologizing -_

Blue eyes look up, but they are shifting past Crowley - up and over his shoulder.

And - _oh._

“_Right_.Forgot about him,” Crowley says and stands. 

“Aziraphale.”

“Gabriel.”

“_Asshole_,” Crowley corrects, lips curving in a thin, sharp line. Spinning on his heel, he swings a fist at the Archangel’s nose.

Gabriel jerks back, but he’s a millisecond too slow. Crowley’s fist catches the side of his nose, and Crowley experiences the, _truthfully_, rather alarming sensation of cartilage cracking beneath his hand. 

Gabriel topples from his perch on the couch, bleating curses all the way down. He’s barely touched ground before he’s up again, one hand on his bent nose, the other curling around the sword hilt which is emerging from the aether.

“_That_ was a mistake, demon,” Gabriel says - or, _tries to_. 

Between the golden blood dripping into his mouth and his crushed nose, the threat comes out garbled and almost comically nasally. 

Crowley, in the process of shaking out his hand, catches a glimpse of the sword emerging out of thin-air, and skips back. Snapping his fingers, he summons flame and -

Does a double take. Flipping his hand, he squints at the flame curling in his palm. He blinks once. Twice. Takes off his glasses and blinks again.

There’s no getting around it.

The flame is blue.

“Huh,” Crowley says.

Clutching at his broken nose and holding a sword half summoned, Gabriel has stopped, and is also staring down at Crowley’s hand.

“_Okay_. Mind telling me what the fuck is_ that_ all about?” Gabriel says around a mouthful of snot and blood.

Tilting his head, Crowley wiggles his fingers, watching, entranced as the blue flame dances between them.

_Odd._

Holding his hand aloft, Crowley turns to show Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, however, isn’t paying attention to Crowley - or Gabriel for that matter. He’s crouched beside the couch, one hand on Beelzebub’s head, the other on their chest. 

“Both of you. Stop it. _Now_,” Aziraphale snaps, looking up, “Beelzebub is fading. Fast.”

Crowley folds his hand around the strange flame, dousing it. 

He regrets it when, moments later, Gabriel whips the remainder of the sword from the aether and - spinning it with a flourish, levels it at Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, conversational. “Take a step back.”

Aziraphale, glancing nervously at the blade pointed at his throat, purses his lips. Meeting Gabriel’s eyes, he heaves a frustrated sigh.

“I am _obviously_ trying to help,” Aziraphale says, holding the Archangel’s gaze. “I was under the impression that you and Beelzebub have some sort of business together. Am I wrong in assuming you _don’t _want to watch them die?”

As Aziraphale speaks, Crowley takes a slow, careful step toward Gabriel.

Gabriel lifts the sword, lightly brushing the underside of Aziraphale’s chin.

“Am _I_ wrong in assuming that you and your demon boyfriend are the _last_ people who would ever want to save Beelzebub - who, by the way - tried to have _said_ demon boyfriend killed?”

“He’s not-” Aziraphale stutters, then frowns, bristling. “Oh _for pities sake_, quite _a lot_ has happened in the last twelve hours! Satan has, apparently, gone mad and Beelzebub, _apparently_, has an idea of how to stop him. And we were chased out of London, and Hell hounds followed us onto _consecrated ground_. And then _you_ tried to murder me. So if you could kindly put down the _fucking_ sword - and _Crowley_, stop trying to sneak up on Gabriel. Get over here and help me.” 

Aziraphale finishes, trembling and red in the face.

“Um,” Gabriel manages, nose dripping. “Satan is _what_.”

“The _sword_, Gabriel,” Aziraphale stutters.

Reluctantly, the blade lowers.

Only after the pointy bit is safely away from Aziraphale’s fleshy parts does Crowley hop over the end table. Placing himself very purposefully between Gabriel and Aziraphale, Crowley crouches down.

“I can hardly sense any energy in them, Crowley,” Aziraphale mutters sweeping his fingers over Beelzebub’s temple.

Grimacing, Crowley pokes at the holy burns.

“Yeah,” he says, lifting a part of Beelzebub’s blazer. Beneath, their skin is raw and partially melted. Fighting the overwhelming urge to gag, Crowley drops the fabric. “It’s not good.”

“_And?_” Gabriel says, irritable and_ looming_. “How about you _do something _about it, demon.”

“It’s not that simple,” Crowley hisses.

“Yes, you are the expert here, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, turning to give Crowley his full attention. “What must be done?”

Heaving a sigh, Crowley takes a long look at Beelzebub. His finger taps a nervous pattern on the couch.

Crowley can think of, _at most_, three methods which will _maybe_ save Beelzebub. They are long shots. And are, all of them, far more dangerous than he’d prefer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To save Beelzebub, Crowley reluctantly suggests…
> 
> 1\. Stealing Hell Fire (from Hell or perhaps, from Heaven - as it is distinctly possible they secretly kept some for themselves after Aziraphale / Crowley’s attempted execution) to bathe Beelzebub within it.  
2\. Crowley, though exhibiting strange side effects after giving blood to Aziraphale, is willing to attempt a demonic healing.  
3\. Attempting a dangerous, and rarely used ritual, which should be capable of transferring a portion of one individual’s life force to another. Crowley happily suggests Gabriel be the one to sacrifice a bit of his life.
> 
> Comment or to vote :) I'm also taking votes on [tumblr](https://goodomensblog.tumblr.com/post/187896113727/afterward-part-8)  



	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #3 won! And the results are...interesting! (I'm also taking votes on Tumblr, so a big chunk of the votes are coming from over there.)

“I mean,” Gabriel says, shrugging, “I always assumed demons had some way of healing other demons, but if you-”

“Yes, yeah we’ve got ways,” Crowley says with a glare. “But it’s complicated, alright? Some of them _only _work in Hell. And we can’t exactly pop down for a visit.”

Aziraphale’s hand is gentle, a soothing touch on his shoulder. 

“We’ll find another way.”

“There_ is _another way. Might be the best option that we’ve got, given the circumstances.”

“_And …?_” Gabriel says, impatiently waving him on. “Come on. Get on with it.”

Aziraphale’s hand remains on Crowley’s shoulder, and at Gabriel’s tone, they share a commiserating look.

If Beelzebub didn’t have information on a rampaging Satan - _and_ potentially hold the key to keeping him at bay, Crowley wouldn’t even be attempting to deal with Gabriel and his over-the-top _dickery_. 

But considering that a crazed Satan _does_ in fact, pose a significant problem for everyone, Aziraphale included, Crowley is willing to deal. 

For now.

With a long, deep sigh, Crowley rolls his neck, and begins, “It’s a ritual. One of the ancient ones. Transfers a portion of one being’s life force to another.”

Gabriel, _thin lips mercifully closed_, is nodding.

“_I’ll_ have to perform the ritual. So_ you_,” Crowley says, nodding sharply at Gabriel, “will have to offer up a bit of angelic life.”

Silence swallows the room.

Gabriel opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. He tilts his head, blinking, and finally says, stiff and sharp, “Yeah, no. I’m not doing that.”

“Beelzebub is _dying_, you jackass,” Crowley hisses, gesturing at the burnt demon, small and sunk into Gabriel’s lavish couch. “You’ve got plenty of life to spare. Get the fuck over yourself.”

Beside him, Aziraphale has a hand on Beelzebub’s wrist. He chances a short glance at Gabriel before worriedly re-examining the fading demon. 

Arms folded across his chest like a shield, Gabriel shifts, looking between them.

“_Gabriel,_” Crowley demands.

Twitching in a distinctly uncomfortable manner, the archangel turns a quick circle. A muscle works in his jaw. Rubbing his hands over his arms, he shakes his head once.

“Transporting you all from that church was _one thing_. But giving up some of _my_ holy energy to — to —” and here, Gabriel glances down at Beelzebub, and blinking, averts his gaze. “I’m an _Archangel_. It would be beyond blasphemy.”

“But _Gabriel_,” Aziraphale starts, then stops. Carefully placing Beelzebub’s hand on the couch, he looks up. “I know you’re not on the same side, but you two have worked together. In a sense. And I don’t know the full story,_ clearly_, but Beelzebub trusted you to—”

“Yeah, well they shouldn’t have.”

“Obviously,” Crowley drawls, lips curling back over teeth.

“It can’t be angelic to let a being just die—”

“You—” and here Gabriel stops, pressing a fist against his lips. He hisses a breath through clenched teeth. “There are_ rules,_ Aziraphale. And you never _got this_, but there are the_ right ways_ of breaking the rules and the _wrong ways_. Using one’s own angelic life force to_ literally_ breathe life into a demon is the wrong way.”

“…but,” Aziraphale says, shaking his head, “either way, it’s breaking the rules—”

“Plausible deniability, Aziraphale,” Gabriel breathes, and the sound of it is the exhaustion of ages.

“You’re really going to let Beelzebub die on your couch,” Crowley says.

Violet eyes shutter, and Gabriel turns, staring fixedly at the floor. 

“My hands are tied.”

“We could make you,” Crowley says, deadly quiet.

“You could _try_.”

“Crowley, _stop_. We can’t fight here. If we’re, I mean - I assume Gabriel brought us to…?” Aziraphale halts, glancing at Gabriel for confirmation.

Arms folded, Gabriel gives a short nod.

_Heaven._

It’s his second time returning to the _above_ in the span of a few months, and Crowley feels as little this time as he did the first. And it’s - _odd_, considering that Heaven - or at least his expulsion from it, has been, for many centuries, a topic of particular fixation. His lack of attachment - feeling - _anything_ \- with regard to Heaven, now that he, again, stands upon it’s pristine floors, has Crowley thinking, in a vague, distracted sense, of the nature of _home._

It’s Aziraphale’s voice, soft and musing, which draws Crowley from his thoughts.

“Release too much power, and they’ll sense our presence here.”

“Gabriel wouldn’t want that either,” Crowley thinks aloud as he refocuses on the problem at hand. Gaze wandering to the twitching Archangel, he adds, “Imagine, being caught red-handed, harboring two demons and an angelic fugitive.” 

“It’s a moot point, because we _especially_ do not want to be discovered, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “I don’t want to imagine what Heaven would do to us, let alone Beelzebub.” 

Pressing his lips in a thin line, Aziraphale nods once, apparently arriving at some conclusion.

“I’ll do it,” Aziraphale announces.

“You - um - _what?_”

“We_ need_ Beelzebub. At the very least, to find out what they know,” Aziraphale insists. “I’ll happily give up a portion of my life force to heal them.”

Crowley blinks, and there’s a stuttering rhythm in his ears, because Aziraphale was nearly d—

He can’t even think it.

“You’re an _idiot_,” Crowley says, tongue curling around the shape of an agitated hiss. “_Look at you_, still pale from your lassst guh - bloody _gavotte _with death. You don’t have any extra life to spare, Aziraphale.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, solemn and serious, “I know myself. I know my form. I will be fine.”

Shoulders hunching, Crowley roughly shakes his head, “No. No.” Heaving a sharp breath, he shakes his head again for good measure. “Better idea. How ‘bout we off Gabriel - consequences be damned - and give Beelzebub all his miserable life energy?”

“_Dear_,” Aziraphale says, as Gabriel calls out—

“Fuck you too, buddy.”

And Crowley is standing, Aziraphale’s hand on his wrist as Gabriel turns, sword re-emerging from the aether-

“You are,” a halting, tremulous voice wheezes, “the _actual fucking worst_. And I hate… all of you.”

Aziraphale is first to react. Hands fluttering, he drops back to his knees.

“Oh, oh dear. You’d better — oh you really shouldn’t move.”

Ignoring him, Beelzebub claws the couch, attempting to rise - and promptly falls back, raking deep gouges in the cushions on their way back down. 

Crowley watches the spectacle, and for Beelzebub’s benefit, lifts a single, unimpressed brow.

Baring their teeth, the demon lord manages a wheezing cough in place of a snarl.

“While you’re up,” Crowley says, conversational, “You’re in support of us killing Gabriel to feed you his life force, yeah? He’s not really in the giving mood, it seems.”

Beelzebub’s dark, slitted eyes shift in Gabriel’s direction. 

“…what did you honestly expect?” Beelzebub says, matter-of-fact. “Angels don’t go… go around helping demons. And demons don’t help angels.”

It’s an echo of Gabriel’s own words, but the Archangel determinedly refuses to meet Beelzebub’s gaze. Fingering the edges of his pressed coat, he dips his chin once in silent agreement.

“…we exchange in trades…,” Beelzebub says, their voice little more than a sigh, “…and I’ve got information to trade…if, if you assholes can keep me alive long enough to share it.”

“So we_ kill Gabriel_-”

“_Stop offering to kill Gabriel_,” Beelzebub snaps, and across the room, the archangel’s shoulders stiffen. “Just,” Beelzebub groans, “…it would be…bit ambitious to ask for a bit of Hellfire, huh?”

“A bit,” Aziraphale says, wincing.

Crowley and Gabriel, in what must be the first time in…_well - ever_, seem to have the same thought, at the exact same time.

“Now hold on a sec—.”

“Um. About that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two angels and a demon are TRYING to figure out how to save a friend-er, complicated acquaintance, and they’ve all got different ideas of how to go about doing it…
> 
> 1\. Gabriel’s idea: steal - borrow without, uh, permission, Heaven’s super secret stash of Hellfire, squirreled away after Aziraphale was supposed to be executed. It is well guarded at the best of times, and for reasons Gabriel refuses to talk about, Heaven is on high alert today…  
2\. Crowley’s idea: Get in touch with a reliable - mostly reliable contact from Hell. Crowley is sure that if he can get back down to the surface and - erm, pays his contact well enough - he’ll be able to get a flask of Hellfire, probably…  
3\. Aziraphale’s idea: Go through with the ritual and give up a portion of his life. Crowley is worried over nothing. Truthfully, Aziraphale feels fine. In fact, strangely enough, better than fine…
> 
> (AUTHOR’S NOTE - these are all possible plot threads that can and WILL be explored later, so even if it’s not picked this round, mysteries will likely be revisited as the story progresses)
> 
> Comment to vote :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #1 won! It's heist time!

“…so, in summation, we, well - _slightly_ bent the rules and kept the jar of Hellfire.”

“_How?_”

“Swapped out the real jar with a fake and,” Gabriel shrugs, “the demon didn’t notice when he brought it back. Truthfully, the poor guy seemed _a little-_,” he stops, awkwardly grimacing as he taps a finger against his head.

“_Idiot_,” Beelzebub hisses, fingers curling, piercing the couch with jagged holes.

Gabriel waves a hand, and the shredded couch knits together.

“Works out for us though,” Crowley says.

Beelzebub, slumping in exhaustion, manages a nod. Extending a sharp nail, they reach out, poking a fresh hole in the newly repaired couch.

Aziraphale, glancing down, presses a staying hand on Beelzebub’s wrist. 

“Rest,” he counsels. “Save your energy. We don’t know how long it will take Gabriel to return with the Hellfire.”

‘_Me?_” 

Three sets of eyes are, at once, glaring at the Archangel.

“_Obviously,_” Crowley says, breaking the silence.

“Hey -_ I_ already told you it was here. I could have easily kept that to myself.”

“You are _literally_ the only one here who can get it,” Crowley replies, incredulous.

“Yeah, well, I’m not going to,” Gabriel says, crossing his arms. “You all _don’t even know_ what’s been going on in Heaven today. Frankly, it’s a mess. In fact, I should be out there right now, you know, _doing my job_. People are on high alert. It’s a whole thing_. _Even_ I_ couldn’t just walk on in and take the Hellfire.”

“_Gabriel_,” Beelzebub says, forcing their weak voice loud. “I’m not - I’m not asking you for a favor. I know - I know you wouldn’t - If you do this, I’ll pay up - I’ll pay up later. You know I’m good for it,” Beelzebub hisses, forehead creasing in pain. “Anything. Just - _ugh_,” shivering, the demon heaves a wheezing breath and goes quiet. 

Their dark gaze turns up, dull and half-lidded, as if they already know what the Archangel’s answer will be.

Gabriel had listened, holding himself rigid, posture perfectly straight. And now that Beelzebub has silenced, Gabriel turns his head down, nostrils flaring. He shakes his head.

“I cannot-”

“You can. And you will,” Aziraphale interrupts.

Gabriel turns at the interruption, lips curling into a sneer.

Aziraphale, bracing his hands on the couch, presses up. Beelzebub watches him rise, dark eyes unreadable.

Hands fisted at his sides, Aziraphale turns. Standing straight, he looks at Gabriel, head tilted to meet his eyes. 

“You’ll retrieve the Hellfire. Because Beelzebub is dying. And it is within your power to save them. And because,” and when Aziraphale pauses, drawing a breath, his wings flicker in and out of existence on this plane - _and they don’t look quite right_ \- but they’re gone before Crowley can see more than a glance.

“It is the right thing to do,” Aziraphale finishes, head held high.

“You don’t get to decide what is right-”

“I just did,” Aziraphale snaps. His fists are trembling.

Crowley, circling around Gabriel, curls his fingers, knuckles cracking as nails shift to claws. “I’d listen to the angel, Archangel.”

“Fighting will draw attention. Thought you wanted to avoid that, seeing as you _are_ a traitor,” Gabriel says, shifting to keep both angel and demon within sight.

“Oh, I would prefer it, yes. However, I’m starting to think Heaven might be otherwise occupied today. What did you call it? A _mess?_” Aziraphale asks, stepping into a stance Crowley recognizes. Last time he’d stood like this, he was holding a flaming sword. “So I’m wondering if they’d notice a power surge at all. Especially from the residence of an Archangel.”

Shivers climb Crowley’s spine, because _this_ is a side of Aziraphale he doesn’t get to see very often. Smiling, sharp as a knife, Crowley prowls, matching Aziraphale’s stance.

“Just say the word, Aziraphale,” Crowley calls, gleeful. 

He _does _usually prefer more creative methods to outright violence. But for _Gabriel_, who sent Aziraphale to burn with a cold, guiltless smile, Crowley is _happy_ to make an exception. 

“I don’t want to drag you into this, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, eyes on Gabriel as he circumvents the coffee table.

“_Please_ angel, you’d have to drag me out of it.” 

Crowley is moving opposite Aziraphale, keeping the Archangel perfectly between them. 

Gabriel spins, trying to face both of them at once.

“You have a choice to make, Gabriel,” Aziraphale calls.

“I can take you. Both of you,” Gabriel replies, the nervous edge in his voice undercutting his bold words.

“Maybe,” Aziraphale says - as Crowley calls out:

“_Can you though?_”

Violet eyes flick back and forth between them - and then to Beelzebub, pale and sunken on the couch.

Crowley is almost disappointed to see the fight go out of him. 

Tension bleeding from his rigid spine, Gabriel shrinks back. Letting out a string of sharp, ancient curses, Gabriel drags a hand down his face.

“_Fine_,” he says, vitriolic. “But I am _not _touching that damned jar. Someone will have to risk coming with me.” 

Cold eyes look to Crowley.

“Fine by me.”

Aziraphale, gaping, scurries between them. “No - _no. Not fine_.” Eyes wide, Aziraphale turns on Crowley. “You are _not_ going out there. Not with _him_.”

“I can probably disguise myself well enough for a quick trip to the - er, wherever. Like Lil’ Gabbie said-”

“That is _not my name_.”

“Like Gabbers said, Heaven’s preoccupied today,” Crowley shrugs - _and it has not escaped his notice that Gabriel has yet to reveal _what_ precisely has Heaven so worked up._

“They won’t notice me if I take steps to conceal myself. Besides,” and here Crowley pauses, lowering his voice. “Best someone keeps an eye on our favorite Archangel anyway. Ensure he doesn’t make any extra stops along the way.”

“I’m right here. I can hear literally everything you’re saying.”

Crowley, casually flicking his middle finger over Aziraphale’s shoulder, continues.

“Really angel. I’ll be fine. More than fine once I get my hands on the Hellfire.”

Behind Aziraphale, Gabriel shifts, his already rigid posture stiffening.

“Yeah, stop that. I’m not going to _waste it_ on your sorry ass, Archangel.”

“Try it and I’d smite you where you stood.”

And then Aziraphale is turning, and the air is vibrating around them. 

“Touch him and I_ swear to God_ that I will end you, Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, the terrible timbre of truth resounding with a buzzing pressure, laying weight to his every word.

Crowley’s skin is prickling - in reaction to both the gathering power and Aziraphale’s words; heart in his throat, he reaches out, placing a staying hand on Aziraphale’s arm.

Electricity sparks between them. It is red - no blue, _no_, it’s black and white and silver and gold and -

Angel and demon start, pulling apart. 

The electricity fizzles out, curling and twisting into nothing, like smoke from a doused flame.

Crowley glances up, meeting Aziraphale’s startled gaze.

“_What…?_” 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale answers, pale and hushed.

Behind them, Gabriel heaves a deep, exhausted sigh. 

“You two_ had_ to go fuck up something else, didn’t you?”

“We didn’t-” Aziraphale starts, bristling - then halts, glancing down at his wrist.

Crowley turns his own wrist over, inspecting the cut that is, by now, nearly healed.

“Huh.”

“Yeah _huh_. Look, I’ll deal with whatever fuckery you two managed to create later. You want the Hellfire or not?” Gabriel glances, as if on impulse, back at the couch. 

Beelzebub’s eyes have drifted closed.

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale says, turning.

“I’ll be back before you know it, angel. Promise,” Crowley says, and _believes it_ \- because lying to his angel about something like_ this _would be unforgivable. 

As if he can feel the truth, resonant, in Crowley’s words, Aziraphale stops. Lips pressing together, he looks Crowley up and down. Brows curving, concerned skin wrinkling between them, he says, chin quivering, “Crowley, I-”

“Are we going or not? _Come on_.”

Crowley reaches out, brushing his knuckles over the back of Aziraphale’s hand. There are no sparks, but Aziraphale, nonetheless, shivers beneath the touch.

“Don’t open the door for anyone, angel,” Crowley says, and with a snap, shifts his body. 

The Archangel Michael stands, slouching, in the center of the room. Pursing golden lips, Crowley removes his dark glasses.

“_Seriously,_” Gabriel says, flat and exhausted, “What happens if we run into the_ real one_?”

Hands on his hips, Crowley shrugs, arching one of Michael’s manicured brows. 

“I _am _the real one. I’m walking around with the Archangel _fucking _Gabriel. The other one’s _clearly_ the impostor.”

Eyes rolling to the ceiling, Gabriel heaves a deep breath. “Fine. Let’s just -”

Beelzebub, reaching out, grabs hold of Gabriel’s pants.

“Ten minutes,” Beelzebub says, voice quieter than a whisper. “Think I can last…ten more minutes. Understand….asshole?”

Gabriel’s expression is impossible to read. Lips pressing together in a hard, flat line, he drags his leg loose of Beelzebub’s grasp.

“_Hey_,” Gabriel calls with a sharp look toward Crowley and Aziraphale. “Is this happening, or not?”

Crowley, flicking his fingers in a mocking salute, gives Aziraphale one last lingering look. 

“Be back soon, angel.”

“I believe you,” Aziraphale says. Eyes wide, and hands wringing in front of him, he watches as Crowley step up to the door. 

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale calls as the door swings open. “What I said earlier - I meant it. Don’t lay a hand on him.”

Gabriel, casting a withering glance back into the apartment, slams the door.

Tapping a heel against gleaming marble floor, Crowley turns a long look at the arching halls.

_Heaven._

“Try not to sully it with your sin,” Gabriel says, and sets off at a brisk pace down the hall.

Crowley, sneering at the back of his head, flips him off with Michael’s manicured hand, and strides purposefully after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After six thousand years, Crowley again walks Heaven’s halls….
> 
> A fun one this time! Choose how much energy Crowley will devote to “getting along” with Gabriel on their Hellfire acquisition mission:
> 
> 1\. 0% energy - Crowley will be 100% bastard. Because Gabriel is the actual worst and he deserves it.  
2\. 50% energy - Crowley will be reasonably civil - unless Gabriel is really asking for it. They do have limited time, but Crowley isn’t about to let Gabriel walk all over him.  
3\. 100% energy - Crowley promised Aziraphale that he would return unscathed. If he has to play nice with Gabriel to ensure his safe return, he will.
> 
> Comment to vote! :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #2 won! Crowley will devote 50% of his energy to not being an utter bastard - even if Gabriel does absolutely deserve it.
> 
> Note: I’m so sorry for the delay in updates! I was in the process of moving and it temporarily commandeered my entire life. I’m all moved and somewhat settled at this point, so I should be able to keep the updates coming more regularly :)

Heaven is…quieter than Crowley remembers. Permeating the halls is a nearly tangible _tenseness_. It weighs, heavy and sinking, upon cool, crisp Heavenly air.**  
**

“I know you lot don’t have the crowding problem that we’ve got down below, but,” Crowley says, determinedly holding his hips - which look like Michael’s - still and his spine - just slightly shorter than what he’s used to - straight. 

“Isn’t this a little empty, even for Heaven?”

“Like I said - it’s a _hectic_ day. Everyone’s busy,” Gabriel says with a sharp glance over his shoulder. “Also? Shut up.”

“That is no way to speak to a fellow Archangel, Gabriel. Honestly, I expected better from you.” Crowley replies, arching one of Michael’s sharp brows.

“I hate you.”

“Love you too,” Crowley says in a mocking falsetto. 

“Don’t say that in Michael’s body - no, actually, you know what? How about you don’t say that at all? Or better yet? Don’t speak. Thanks.”

For a long second, the rasp of footsteps is the only sound between them.

“-I just think it’s ironic, ya know?” Crowley cuts in, mimicking Michael’s sharp voice. “You’re oozing with hate - way more than I’ve got, and_ I’m_ the demon-”

Before he can finish, a blurred, undoubtedly _angelic _figure cuts around the corner. White shoes squeak on marble. Crowley’s mouth snaps closed.

Uriel stops just short of collision.

Shoulders rising and falling, Uriel snaps her feet together, jerking to attention.

“Gabriel,” Uriel says, and glances at Michael - and twists around, falling out of attention as she does a double take.

“_Michael?_” Uriel blinks, incredulous. “But you were_ just-_”

“Yeah, yep, I ran into Michael on my way here - but _come on_ Uriel, we’re _wasting_ time,” Gabriel says, steering the angel by her shoulder. “You had an assignment, remember? You promised you wouldn’t let me down.”

“Gabriel,” Uriel says, spinning away, wrenching her shoulder out of Gabriel’s grasp. “_I _can’t find Her. _No one_ can find Her. Anywhere! It’s like - It’s like, like… she’s _gone_.”

“_Wait_,” Crowley says, skin prickling with a nervous energy. “her or Her?”

“Michael, are you alright? Because _we were just-_”

“_What?_” Gabriel interrupts with a loud, awkward laugh. “Michael’s_ fine_. It’s a test, obviously. Checking to make sure you’re not …uh, an impostor.”

“It’s not a bad thought, I suppose,” Uriel replies after a moment.

“It’s…not?”

“You didn’t hear? Hours ago - right around the time God disappeared, there was a flare of energy. Metatron felt it. It was dark, and it was powerful. And it came from below.”

Crowley chokes on his breath. 

_“Wha_\- God’s what?”

Uriel turns, brows furrowing in frustration, “_Michael-_”

“Wait, wait, _wait_. Uriel,” Gabriel snaps, interrupting. “You’re saying we’re - what? _Invaded?_”

The cold, sharp click of heels on marble interrupts them.

Michael, clad in Heavenly white, marches around the bend. Upon catching sight of the trio, the Archangel stops short.

Three ethereal and one occult being go suddenly, instantly still.

Cold eyes rake up and down Crowley’s disguised body.

“_Who_,” Michael says, voice sharp and cruel as broken glass, “are _you?_”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Face-to-face with the real Archangel Michael, Crowley….
> 
> (1) Accuses Michael of being the impostor. Crowley is reasonably sure that Gabriel will back him up - if for no other reason than to avoid being caught fraternizing with a demon…and harboring one in his living quarters.   
(2) Shoves past Uriel and Michael and makes a run for it on his own. Crowley worries that Gabriel will betray him in an attempt to avoid blame. Crowley thinks he’ll be able to track down the Hellfire on his own. He may not remember details of a life in Heaven, but he has a vague and blurry recollection of the place. And besides, it’s Hellfire he’s looking for. It should call to him. In theory.  
(3) Recalls that Uriel was also one of the angels who eagerly watched Aziraphale burn. Using the element of surprise to his advantage, Crowley attempts to punch Uriel and then Michael in the face.  
(4) In a panic, begins repeating everything Michael says back to her.
> 
> Comment to vote! :)
> 
> I also take voting on [tumblr](https://goodomensblog.tumblr.com/post/187896113727/afterward-part-8)  
, so you're welcome to check in there to see what other people are voting!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO EXCITED to resume this choose your own adventure fic with all of you. Whether you’ve stuck around or are new, I’m happy that you’re along for the ride :) 
> 
> (#4 won by a LANDSLIDE. I’m excited to finally bring y’all the next part!)

Michael halts, her frigid glare raking up and down Crowley’s mimicked form.

“_Who_,” Michael asks, voice sharp and cruel as broken glass, “are _you_?”

In Heaven, time doesn’t, in the strictest sense, _exist_. So it is not entirely hyperbole to say the ensuing silence seemed to last an eternity.

Crowley breaks it - with a prim, delicate clearing of the throat.

“Who,” he asks, mimicking Michael’s high, tight voice, “are _you?_”

Heads swivel from Crowley-who-looks-like-Michael, to the real Michael, and then back to Crowley again.

Michael is gaping, perfectly plucked brows digging down in furious indignation. “Are you two _seriously_ going to stand there while this - this _interloper_ mocks me?”

Crowley’s mouth is open, lips automatically moving to copy Michael’s scowl. His brain hasn’t had a chance to offer it’s two cents, but accustomed to crisis situations of this sort, his mouth is forging on ahead.

“Are you two seriously going to stand there while _this_ interloper mocks _me?_” Crowley asks, savagely jabbing a manicured nail at the real Michael.

“Stop that _right now_,” Michael commands, nostrils flaring.

“_Stop that right now!_”

“I _swear,_ if you don’t-”

“I swear, if _you_ don’t-”

“How_ dare_ you-”

“How dare_ you???_”

“Enough!” Uriel shouts, palms held aloft. From their eyes, traces of pure white light fades. Standing tall, the angel looks imperiously between the two Michaels, and then to Gabriel. “Gabriel. What is going on?”

All eyes shift to the archangel.

Gabriel’s mouth opens and closes. Stiff, and looking distinctly uncomfortable, he looks from Crowley, to Michael, and then to Uriel.

Crowley’s heart is beating so furiously it’s nearly a hum in his chest - and he’s honestly too stressed to properly recall if hearts are even supposed to do that. Slowly, he shifts his weight, preparing to run - or fight.

Coughing, Gabriel awkwardly clears his throat. Beneath the white, sterile hallway lights, his forehead glistens.

“So,” Gabriel begins, violet gaze flickering rapidly between Uriel and the two Michaels. “Here’s the thing-”

Before he can finish, the hallway goes black.

It only lasts a moment, but when the lights return, flickering and flashing, they bathe the hall in an eerie half light.

The floor beneath them _lurches_.

They all feel _It_ at once.

For Crowley, it feels a bit like falling - that is, if falling also involved placing one’s head in a vice while simultaneously chugging nitric acid. Doubling over, he braces his hands on his knees. Tongue curling against the roof of his mouth, he sucks in air through his teeth. It tastes like ruin.

The angels are doubled over as well. Michael is hunched, knee braced against the floor. Uriel, golden eyes flickering, slumps against a wall. And like Crowley, Gabriel has braced his hands on his knees. Eyes wide, he heaves shallow, shivering breaths.

A surge of _something_ rolls through the hall before any of them have had a chance to recover. And for a moment, it’s the falling, head squeezing, throat burning feeling all over again.

Four heads turn as one, whipping to face the end of the hall.

“Something’s here,” Michael whispers, her nails gouging white marble.

“Something that shouldn’t be,” Uriel says, shaking.

The screaming starts without warning.

It’s pure, piercing - angelic; sounds of terror, but also the razor sharp notes of angelic war cries.

Michael is on her feet in moments, and Uriel stumbles up after her. They take the hallway at a run, wings snapping into existence.

Gabriel, eyes ablaze and wings unfurling, rises -

Michael’s form is fading, melting off Crowley’s skin. Reaching out with his own hand, Crowley snatches Gabriel’s sleeve.

The archangel whips around.

“If you want to keep that hand, demon, you’ll release me. _Now_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heaven is under attack - from something strange, terrible, and utterly unknown. Michael and Uriel rush to aid the angels fighting this mystery enemy. Gabriel, despite Beelzebub’s desperate state (and the time running out to get the dying demon Hellfire), seems intent on following after Michael and Uriel. Crowley will…
> 
> 1) Let Gabriel go. Crowley can find the Hellfire without him. Surely.  
2) Try to reason with Gabriel. Crowley will remind Gabriel that Beelzebub is DYING (and surely the turmoil in Heaven and Hell must be connected in some way?). They need to know what Beelzebub knows now more than ever.  
3) Let Gabriel go - and give up on finding the Hellfire (sorry Beelzebub). Something bad has broken into Heaven, and Crowley needs to get back to Aziraphale to make sure he’s safe.
> 
> Please comment to vote! I take votes for 24 hours after this is posted :) (Also, you can vote on [tumblr](https://goodomensblog.tumblr.com/)  
if you want)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for voting! Between the votes here and on Tumblr, #2 was the clear winner!

“If you want to keep that hand, demon, you’ll release me. _Now_.”

Crowley, despite very much wanting to keep said hand, does not let go.

When Gabriel reaches over his shoulder, pulling his Heavenly sword from the aether, Crowley twists out of the way. “Woah, woah, woah - hey! Hold on. Just wait.”

“_Just wait?_” Gabriel snaps, voice dripping with incredulity. “Heaven is under attack, and you want me to _just wait?_”

“What about Beelzebub?”

“_What about them?_ Maybe - just _maybe _it’s a bunch of demons who are fighting my angels right now!”

“That _thing_, whatever it was we felt - that was not demonic, you know it as well as I do.”

“Then what _the fuck _are my angels fighting?” Gabriel asks, his knuckles going white around the sword pulled halfway into existence. 

From beyond the hall, the cries have grown louder, fiercer - more desperate. There is a static crackling in the air and the acrid, burnt smell of ozone.

Crowley, after risking a glance at the sword, releases Gabriel’s sleeve - and instead, grabs him by the wrist.

“_Something,” _Crowley hisses, “that was strong enough to bust into Heaven with one blow. Something that I’ve never encountered - and I once traveled all the universe hanging stars. Something that’s, by the sounds of it, carving through ranks of highly trained angelic warriors like _butter_.”

“That’s _why_,” Gabriel says, giving his arm a savage yank, “_I need to-_”

“That’s _why_ you’re gonna want a _bloody_ Lord of Hell in fighting shape!”

At that, Gabriel’s struggles momentarily cease. He blinks, scoffing, “You can’t seriously think-”

“I _think_ that Beelzebub wants to live. And they - like Aziraphale and myself, are currently stuck in Heaven with you, a bunch of angels, and whatever the fuck that thing is. So be _smart_ about this, you giant _idiot_. Save Beelzebub. Help us find out what they know. And maybe, just maybe we can all use Beelzebub, _Lord_ of Hell, to help us get out of this god _damned_\- er, _blessed_ \- augh - _whatever! _Predicament!” Crowley finishes, chest heaving.

It isn’t exactly a lie. While Crowley is certain Beelzebub, like a cornered cat, will indeed willingly fight whatever this thing is, he is not at all sure how battle ready old Beelzebub will be after just a handful of Hellfire. 

But Gabriel doesn’t need to know that.

White knuckled fingers loosen their hold on the sword’s gleaming hilt. Gabriel sinks back. Running a hand up and over his face, he mutters to himself, and sharp, ugly curses fill the spaces between his breaths. When his eyes open, his razor-edge gaze zeroes in on Crowley’s hand. “Seriously. Stop touching me.”

Crowley’s hand snaps open.

“I won’t abandon my soldiers. Not now. Not when they need me,” Gabriel says, yanking his jacket straight. “So you’ll have to retrieve the Hellfire.”

Crowley, who had realistically expected this conversation to end with one of them flipping the middle finger and the other attempting to administer a beheading, takes a moment to process this development.

“I - wait - you want me to-?”

“Yes. Obviously. Shut up.”

“Right. Okay,” Crowley says, and shakes his head. “Wait, where-”

“Do you remember where the records are stored?”

Crowley pauses at that. 

His memory of Heaven - it’s strange. In many ways, it blurs together, a mural of incandescent colors, textures, half-recalled musical notes, voices - that from up close, are nearly incomprehensible. 

But there are moments of clarity. As if he has, for a second, stepped back a pace, and sees just a glimpse of the full thing; an expansive mural that his mosaic memories press together to create. He knows he hung the stars. And he knows, from some forgotten space in him mind, where in these white marble halls the records are kept.

“Yes,” Crowley says, because he can picture the room in his mind now: those twin pillars on either side of that tall, golden door.

“It’s stored on the highest level, in the silver chest,” Gabriel says, curt.

“Got it,” Crowley says, already retreating - because now that Gabriel has given him the information he needs, Crowley doesn’t want to go and give the archangel a chance to change his mind. 

But Gabriel has already turned away. Black, polished shoes tapping smartly against white marble, the angel strolls down the hall and draws a gleaming sword out of the air.

Crowley is mentally mapping his route. He’ll need to take the first door on the right, then cross the atrium and - 

Gabriel’s shout catches him before he can leave.

“By the way, I’m not an idiot, demon. I do know that a single jar of expired Hellfire’s not exactly going to do any demonic miracles.” Gabriel stands at the end of the hall, violet eyes bright in the half light. “And I know Beelzebub’s not going to help anyone anytime soon.”

Crowley stops, turning fully back.

Gabriel lifts the sword, jabbing the blade in Crowley’s direction. “After all this is done, I _will_ be in touch. I expect Beelzebub to share the information they promised me.”

Crowley stares, baffled. “_What_ are you-”

“No - nuh - shush!” Gabriel snaps, waving the sword. “In my room, there’s a passageway out of Heaven. It’s behind the tapestry. After you heal Beelzebub, take them and go.”

“Ohh-kay,” Crowley says, trying to wrap his mind around this second surprising development. “You - that’s - uh - huh. You know, that’s actually pretty nice of you, Gabriel.”

“Yeah, no - _zip it_,” Gabriel bites out, shifting with obvious discomfiture. “The last thing I need is anyone finding a couple of demons and a bad angel in my private rooms. Take Beelzebub and _get out_.” And with a final jab in Crowley’s direction, Gabriel spins the sword with a flourish and disappears into a beam of screaming light.

“What a nutcase,” Crowley says to the empty hallway. 

He crosses the atrium at a sprint, keeping a careful eye out for angels - but the atrium and surrounding halls are empty. Heaven’s full forces have been mustered, then. It’s a sobering thought, and one that makes Crowley run just a little faster. 

As he runs, he can’t help but think of Uriel and Gabriel’s conversation. God is….missing? Could it possibly be true? Crowley’s head tilts back, as if he might spy Her amongst the arched ceiling tiles stretching forlornly above.

She couldn’t be gone, _right?_

After all, where would She go?

The entrance to the Hall of Records is as abandoned as the rest of Heaven, and Crowley flings open it’s arched doors. The Records Room is - staggering. Crowley’s step slow as shelves and stairs rise up around him. His footsteps echo - from marble floors, between pillars, up winding stairs, and fading as they rise into the cavernous dome extending far, far above.

Crowley swears softly, and that echoes too.

As his shoe touches the first stair, he thinks of where he wants to be: the top floor; and when he reaches the second step, the domed ceiling is suddenly directly above him - and the top floor, bathed in gold, is before him, as though it had always been.

Crowley doesn’t have time for surprise or awe, so he focuses instead on the chest; which is sitting, unbothered, at the far side of the room. 

He half expects some kind of booby trap, so when the silver lid slides unhesitatingly open, Crowley can’t help but flinch back. 

Nothing happens. 

Brows lifted, Crowley peers tentatively over the chest’s edge. There, at its center, sits a black jar. Sniffing the air, Crowley can just make out the slightest hints of sulfur.

Tensing, he reaches a hand in - and is relieved when his fingers close over the lid of the jar. He draws it out - and breathes a grateful sigh when no traps spring and no alarms blare.

Kneeling before the chest, he cracks the jar’s lid. When roaring heat surges forth, he snaps the lid back.

“Yep, that’s the stuff,” he says, and screws the lid tight.

Crowley takes the stairs at a run. On the first step, he thinks of the ground floor, and on the second step, he steps confidently into - a room stacked with scrolls.

“Huh,” he says, craning his head back to look at rich oak shelves and the layers of pale scrolls artfully piled upon them. “You’re not what I wanted.”

Deciding to try again, Crowley is turning back to the stairs when faded paint catches his eye. 

He stops.

The mural is nearly entirely covered by shelves and scrolls. The visible section is a web of cracked paint and fading colors - a stark contrast to Heaven’s typically immaculate decor. But even faded as it is, Crowley can make out, clear as day, a _Bentley_ \- _his_ Bentley, painted in peeling fresco. 

Crowley blinks. Rubs his eyes. Squints, and blinks again.

“That’s….weird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rushing back with the Hellfire, Crowley has stumbled upon an impossible oddity in the Hall of Records. When faced with this strange omen, Crowley will…
> 
> 1\. Investigate. He doesn’t have much time to spare, but he can’t leave without uncovering the other side of this mysterious mural.   
2\. Leave. The mural is strange, but time is of the essence. Crowley can’t risk the detour.
> 
> Please comment to vote! I'll count all of the votes that I get for the next 24 hours. I can’t wait to see what you all choose :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #1 won! Crowley is off to investigate.

Scrolls jut from towering shelves, a canopy of yellowing paper arching overhead. Crowley strolls beneath, jar of Hellfire tucked under his arm.

The painted Bentley is flaking, an echo of the colorful fresco it had undoubtedly been, once upon a time. Nowadays, Heaven is pale, sterile, and sprawling. The decorations of old had likely been purged with each of Heaven’s remodelings. All, it seems, but this one here.

Crowley stops short in front of the mural. Tilting his head, he studies it, tentative fingertips tracing curling edges of paint. The Bentley is painted in hues of black that long ago faded to shadow grays. From beneath it’s wheels, brush stoked flames crawl. The pale, peeling flames encircle the vehicle, climbing in and out of the windows. The car is painted as if it is emerging from a wall of fire. And beyond that - the mural is obscured.

Eyeing the dark shelves, Crowley places his hands on cool wood. Bracing, he gives a single, solid push.

It scrapes effortlessly over marble, and the mural uncovers, inch by inch. When the wall is clear, Crowley, wiping sweaty palms on his pants, steps back.

The mural is - broken. 

Entire patches of it have worn away, a likely combination of age and neglect. 

In one corner is the flaming Bentley. Above it and slightly to the right, half of an electric scooter drives along; it’s hunched riders are ghosts, little more than pale outlines amidst peeling paint. Nearby, a boy stands, blue jacket billowing, flaking golden paint encircling his head. His small hand is raised. 

The scene is hauntingly familiar.

Narrowing his eyes, Crowley strolls along the mural, tracing his hand along rough paint. Slivers flake and fall, drifting like snow upon the marble floor.

The mural is ruined and peeling in the areas immediately surrounding the boy. Beyond the stretch of pale wall, the mural choppily resumes. Rendered in harsh strokes, a red-eyed being claws its way from brutal cracks in the earth, black mist rising. Patches of paint are worn away, and when the mural resumes, Crowley’s fingers are running over the blood mad eyes of Hell hounds, who are painted with their heads thrown back in grimacing howls. The sky above them is red.

The mural goes patchy again, but Crowley’s pretty sure he can make out the whitewashed gates of Heaven, and - _huge_, clawed and pale fingers curling possessively over it’s top.

“Hm,” Crowley says, giving the clutching hand a once-over. “That doesn’t look good.”

Nearly the entirety of the remaining mural has fallen into ruin - except for a splash of paint at the end. Or, more specifically, two splashes of paint. Clear, crisp white and rich, velvety black collide in a crash of colors.

Upon closer inspection, Crowley notices that there are figures within the splashes. 

Squinting, Crowley leans in, and realizes the vaguely shaped beings within are reaching toward one another. Where their outstretched reaches touch, a rainbow of color blossoms. Beneath, nearly entirely erased by time an age, precise black lettering spells: _Bilanx_.

“Balance?”

_What does it mean?_

Before Crowley has much of a chance to consider, the room rumbles, rocking. Crowley stumbles back as scrolls, tipping from their precarious stacks, begin to tumble down around him.

_Alright then._ Crowley thinks, giving the mural a last fleeting look. _Time to go_.

Clutching the Hellfire under one arm, Crowley charges the stairs. This time they cooperate, and he’s out of the Hall of Records and back to sprinting across the atrium in moments. In the marble hallways, the lights have faded to a barely-there glow and are flickering rapidly on then off. 

Crowley takes corners at a full sprint, shoes skidding on the smooth floors.

He’s relieved when he sees Gabriel’s doors are still closed. If something had come for Aziraphale, Crowley reasons, they wouldn’t have taken the time to close the door after themselves.

Crowley flings the suite doors open.

“Angel!” he calls, striding in. “I got the-”

He stops.

The room is silent. And bare.

No, _wait._ Not entirely bare. A small, dark shape is curled, motionless on the couch.

Not daring to breathe, Crowley pivots, looking over the room.

“Aziraphale?”

Silence is his only answer.

He crosses the room, shoes sinking into the infuriatingly plush carpet. 

“Aziraphale? _Where are you?_”

Clutching the Hellfire to his chest, Crowley turns in a small circle.

The lump on the couch hasn’t moved. Lifting his glasses, Crowley squints.

“Beelzebub?”

The Lord of Hell is curled in on themselves. Beneath them, the couch is soaked in dark, stale blood. Their face, leeched of color, is partially obscured by black, matted hair.

“_Shit_,” Crowley curses, hopping over the coffee table.

Gripping the demon lord’s shoulder, Crowley pulls them onto their back. They roll, limp, head lolling back.

Cursing under his breath, Crowley gives their shoulder a shake.

Nothing.

He shakes a little harder.

Still nothing.

“Oh come on! _Wake up!_” Crowley hisses, and gives them a rough, abrupt shake.

Chapped lips part; Beelzebub heaves a low, jagged breath.

“See? Knew you hadn’t kicked the bucket,” Crowley says, breathless, and sinks limply down on the table’s edge.

“You….have the Hellfire?” Beelzebub rasps, squinting a tired, pale eye open.

“Got it right here,” Crowley says patting the lid, “And I’ll happily use it to patch you up right as soon as you tell me _where in Heaven_ Aziraphale-”

“Your angel left,” Beelzebub says, breath rattling between words. “We felt the…_thing_. And the angels started….screaming. He waited….but the screams got louder and louder….and then screams turned to pleas….and your angel begged _my_ forgiveness,” Beelzebub adds with a dry, bloody chuckle, “then left…. to try to save them.”

Crowley surges up, jar of Hellfire loose in his grasp. 

“_When?_ Beelzebub, _how long ago did he leave?_”

“…ten minutes…I’d say. For a few minutes now….it’s been silent.”

Crowley straightens. Fingers, only slightly trembling, shove his sunglasses higher on his nose. He has to go. Now.

“….you’re going to leave me, aren’t you?” Beelzebub, rasps, their pale eyes cool and discerning. “At least….leave me the Hellfire….to give me…. a fighting chance.”

Crowley can feel his pulse down to his fingers. Jaw clenched, he looks down at the jar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has gone to help the angels, and is presumably facing off against whatever the thing is that has broken into heaven. Crowley has returned with the jar of Hellfire, to find Beelzebub still alive - but inching closer to death with every passing moment. Desperate to follow after Aziraphale, but with Beelzebub’s life hanging in the balance, Crowley makes the difficult decision to…
> 
> 1\. Stay just long enough to heal Beelzebub with the Hellfire. Crowley can’t stand the thought of Aziraphale facing danger without him….but as much as he wants to rush after Aziraphale, Crowley can’t ignore the feeling that leaving Beelzebub to die is wrong. He may be a demon, but he’s never been a monster.
> 
> 2\. Go after Aziraphale, but leave Beelzebub with the Hellfire so they can at least try to heal themselves. Crowley will never forgive himself if something happens to Aziraphale. He knows it is wrong to leave Beelzebub without helping them, but he is willing to be a monster, just this once, if it means potentially saving Aziraphale’s life.
> 
> 3\. Piggy-back Beelzebub and heal them on-the-go. Crowley is a demon of many talents - multi-tasking being one of them. As a firm believer that one can absolutely have their cake and eat it too, Crowley decides he will immediately go after Aziraphale WHILE healing good old Beelz. What could possibly go wrong?
> 
> Please comment to vote! Thanks for reading!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #3 wins - because y'all love chaos, don't you? It's okay, I love it too.
> 
> ALSO, pov shift activated!

Beelzebub, lord of flies, master of tyrants, patron of demon worship, and prince of Hell, is having, by their own estimation, _a pretty shit day_.

“I think I’d honestly rather die,” Beelzebub groans, as Crowley hauls them impudently up onto his skinny back. 

“I’m saving you, you ungrateful lump of flies, whether you like it or not.”

And Beelzebub, who is having the unfortunate realization that they are too weak to so much as wriggle their way out of this humiliating position, settles for flopping over the demon Crowley’s shoulder in such a way that the black, clotted blood dribbling out of their mouth splats grotesquely down the front of Crowley’s shirt.

“Thank you. Thanks for that,” Crowley says, grabbing underneath Beelzebub’s legs to hike the demon a little higher on his back.

“Welcome,” Beelzebub replies, and more blood dribbles out.

Snatching the jar of Hellfire from the table, Crowley clutches it to his chest. With his other hand scooped behind Beelzebub’s leg to keep them in place, he kicks the door open and prowls, piggy-backing Beelzebub, prince of Hell, into the halls of Heaven.

Beelzebub, bouncing with Crowley’s every loping step, has closed their eyes. Head lolling forward, they’ve half given into the encroaching darkness, when Crowley’s annoying, incessant mutterings drag them back into full consciousness. 

“-now for this to work, I’ll just have to-”

The jar lid _pops_ open. Hellfire leaps up, red flames lapping at the edges of the jar and the nearby grasping fingers. Beelzebub can _feel_ it - the rich, tantalizing heat, and slumps forward, breathing in the fire’s acrid scent.

Crowley carelessly drops the jar, and it clatters across the floor as eager flames wrap around the demon’s wrists; they twist, winding up and around his forearms. It’s at that point that Crowley resumes walking. He does nearly trip over the dropped jar, but manages to stay on his feet with a skip and a hop. 

With each step, Crowley mutters sibilant syllables beneath his breath. They are rich as velvet, coaxing the fire with ancient, saccharine promises.

Beelzebub is generally repulsed by Crowley, but not enough to resist perching their chin on Crowley’s shoulder when the first flickers of flames slide over Beelzebub’s dangling arms. They sigh, going limp with relief as revitalizing flames sink into their skin.

Crowley continues walking and chanting and only stumbling occasionally. And Beelzebub hates Crowley, they really do, but they have to admit - he’s not bad at coaxing Hellfire. Beelzebub can feel the healing warmth of the flames sinking into the marrow of their very being. 

“You awake, Lord Buzziest?” Crowley asks, hiking up Beelzebub from their slowly sliding descent down his back.

When Beelzebub opens their eyes to a completely unfamiliar hall, they have the abrupt and horrifying realization that they had indeed drifted briefly to sleep. While being piggy-backed, no less. _Would the humiliations never cease?_

“Of course I’m awake,” Beelzebub grouses, digging a bony knee into Crowley’s side. “And _no_ nicknames.”

“Alright, alright,” Crowley says, hands up. “I’ve given you all the Hellfire, by the way. Is it working?”

Beelzebub straightens up, pressing a hand against their chest. Eyes closed, they draw a long breath in. Breathing out, they tip their head from side to side, cracking their neck.

“Yeah,” Beelzebub answers, fingers splayed across dry, cracking blood. “Starting to.” 

They hadn’t expected the Hellfire to make them good as new, but it has at least kick-started the process. Beelzebub can feel the infernal energy within themself stirring, slowly mending what had very nearly been irreparably broken.

“I’m looking for Aziraphale, or Gabriel - or I guess, really anyone,” Crowley says, the tension in his voice embarrassingly undisguised. “They’re not where I expected them to be. At least based on the earlier racket.”

Beelzebub’s lip curls in disgust at the emotional display, but nonetheless closes their eyes, spreading their awareness wide. 

Heaven is… not exactly what Beelzebub remembers. Not that they remember much. But somehow, in those blotchy, indistinct recollections, it is brighter, louder, warmer. _Safe_. 

And there definitely wasn’t a malignant, pulsing _thing_ in the central courtyard. 

“The _thing_ is in the innermost courtyard,” Beelzebub says, opening their eyes. “Don’t know if your stupid angel’s with it.”

“Alright then,” Crowley replies, and promptly sets off in that direction.

He’s halfway down the corridor before Beelzebub fully processes the significance of Crowley’s unilateral decision.

“Hey! Hey! Hold up!” Beelzebub says, weakly digging their heels underneath Crowley’s ribs. “_I _don’t want to go near that thing. Put me down!”

Crowley doesn’t slow. “Can you walk on your own yet?” he asks, yellow eyes rolling up behind his _dumb_ glasses.

The tingling ache in Beelzebub’s extremities suggests they probably _cannot_. It’s infuriating and humiliating and Beelzebub wants to _die_.

Crowley takes their silence as an answer. “Guess you’re tagging along, then,” he says with a grim smile.

“I hate you. With the entirety of my being.”

Whistling, Crowley walks faster.

As they approach the courtyard, the air begins to feel heavy, and it tastes - tart, cloying, _rotten_. Beelzebub’s lips curl back, and they warily suck the air between sharpening teeth.

“Demon Crowley,” Beelzebub orders, fingers curling over his shoulders as their sharp gaze scans from left to right. “Go slowly.”

Crowley, for once in his miserable existence, listens. Rolling through his steps, he prowls cautiously into the courtyard.

It’s exquisite - if you’re into uninspired pale flagstone and modern, geometric looking decorative fountains. The bodies on the ground don’t at all fit with the aesthetic.

The Archangel Gabriel is slumped over the edge of the fountain, golden blood sliding down his arm, dripping into cloudy water. The second figure is crumpled closer to the center of the courtyard - as though they’d put themselves between the archangel and whatever had been attacking him. The second one, though further away and also face down, is obviously Crowley’s angel - Aziraphale.

Crowley makes a pitiable, strangled sound, and Beelzebub just knows he’s going to charge out into the courtyard. Nails shifting to claws, Beelzebub digs them into Crowley’s shoulder.

“_He lives_, Crowley, I can feel the flicker of life from all the way over here,” Beelzebub hisses at his ear. 

Beelzebub can feel Gabriel’s life as well, a bright flare of energy at the fountain’s edge.

“Do not rush in,” Beelzebub continues, clenching at cloth and skin, “Something watches from the shadows.”

Crowley stiffens at that. Head tilted, he slowly, carefully, pulls down his glasses. 

“Who’s there?” he calls out.

Beelzebub shivers, the hairs on the back of their neck rising, one by one. Not daring to breathe, not daring to move, Beelzebub watches the space they know a creature waits.

At the courtyard’s edge, a figure unfolds itself from the shadows.

It is…an angel. The short, balding one. _Sandalphon_, if Beelzebub recalls correctly. 

Beelzebub and Crowley watch as the angel Sandalphon strolls out of darkness. His pale, pudgy hands are folded in front of his stomach, and he narrows his eyes, chin tilting inquisitively up as he inspects them.

Crowley looks from that angel to _his_ angel, and Beelzebub digs their nails deeper into his flesh._ Do not move. Do not move_, Beelzebub thinks, squeezing.

Sandalphon tilts his head and speaks. “The angels fought me. And then they ran from me. At least, they tried to.” 

The voice that emerges from his throat is layered and ringing and it leaves Beelzebub with more than a passing inclination to shove their claws deep into their own ears, if only to make it stop.

“I thought I’d conquered all of Hell,” Sandalphon continues, lips quirking in puzzlement, “and yet here, in _Heaven_ of all places, I find two unconquered demons wandering about.”

“_Conquered_?” Beelzebub growls, mind racing. 

They’d fled Hell after Satan had gone mad and started attacking his Princes. At the time, everything had been a giant fucking mess, and Beelzebub had made a tactical retreat to recover. Hell had been chaotic, sure - but _conquered?_

Crowley cuts in before Beelzebub can say another word. “You’re not Sandalphon, are you?”

The thing smiles wide, revealing the angel’s ostentatious gold capped teeth. “I’m _wearing_ Sandalphon. Just like I’m wearing Satan. And the demons and angels who weren’t _quite_ quick enough.”

“_Satan-_” Beelzebub breathes, trembling. They’d thought he’d been bespelled. or some level of _possessed_, but this was - unforgivable.

“_And God?_” Crowley cuts in, voice sharp.

The thing tilts its head in a jagged, unnatural jerk. “_She_ disappeared before I could get my hands on her, I’m afraid. Awfully cruel of her, I say, abandoning all of you like that. Though I suppose you two are rather used to it.”

“What _the fuck _are you?” Beelzebub snaps.

“Oh!” And the thing wearing Sandalphon like a second skin gives a start, “I didn’t introduce myself, did I?”

Sandalphon’s head dips forward. From the back of his neck, pale, twisting limbs unfold. Like spider’s legs, bent and folded back over themselves, they jerkily unfurl. There must be at least eight, and at the end of each limb, bony, clawed hands splay - reaching. The pale, sickly limbs spread out, lifting a creature which emerges from the back of Sandalphon with a frankly horrifying squelch. The thing is limpid and waifish, and watches them with black, eternity old eyes.

“Dear creatures of this poor, dying universe, you may call me Entropy.”

“_Entropy?_” Beelzebub hisses.

As Crowley says, “_This_ universe?”

The thing smiles, and it’s mouth is a void. “Everything ends, honey. I hop from place to place, returning universes to the nothing from which they came.”

“Why?” Crowley asks.

“Why not?” the thing answers, void smile spreading across the lower half of it’s narrow face.

And then Crowley is unhooking Beelzebub’s arms. When he lowers them down, Beelzebub hates how their legs, still embarrassingly weak, give out beneath them. Teeth gritted, Beelzebub kneels on cold flagstone.

Crowley steps away, turning toward the abomination of limbs and hands.

“_Demon Crowley?_” Beelzebub calls when he takes a careful step forward.

“Gonna get Aziraphale,” Crowley says, soft.

The thing - Entropy - looks down. Round eyes unblinkingly survey the courtyard. 

“_Aziraphale_,” it says, singing the name in that horrifying voice. “Is he the soft looking one? He did put up a formidable fight.”

“I’m taking him with me,” Crowley says, low and dangerous.

The thing laughs and it’s so awful Beelzebub has to physically refrain from flinching back. “No. No you’re not,” it says, and laughs again. “He’s strong. And I need the strong ones. I like wearing them best. And if I’m not careful, even the strong ones-”

The clawed hands encircling Sandalphon squeeze. Within moments, black cracks are crawling ominously over the angel’s form. The air begins to whine. Then, with a _pop_ the angel’s form folds in. He shatters into a cloud of black and gold dust that falls silently to the floor.

“Oops,” the thing exclaims.

Beelzebub and Crowley stare, mouths open and the pile of angel at the creature’s feet.

That kind of power is…Beelzebub can’t conceive of it. Not that they have time to try. Before the last Sandalphon dust speck has fallen, Crowley launches into motion.

“_Shit,_” Beelzebub breathes, because this is not a fight any angel or demon can win.

Crowley gets to Aziraphale before the creature does, but he only just has time to drag Aziraphale aside before a clawed hand spears down, piercing clear through the stone tile. Crowley, scrambling, drags Aziraphale back, avoiding a second stabbing hand.

“Move faster _you idiot_,” Beelzebub shouts.

“_Trying to_,” Crowley yelps, yanking his angel another several feet back, barely avoiding the third strike.

He’s not going to make it, Beelzebub realizes with a sinking certainty. Crowley has always been a slippery one, but this thing - this Entropy - is like nothing Beelzebub has ever encountered. It has the strength to casually turn an angel to dust, and Crowley was half-exhausted when they entered the courtyard. 

Beelzebub should get the hell out of here - while the Entropy creature is preoccupied with Crowley. 

Bracing their hands on cold stone, Beelzebub, rises on shaking legs. Their legs burn - and not in the good way. Clenching their jaw, Beelzebub sways, remaining determinedly upright. They take an unsteady step back, away from the chaos in the courtyard.

Behind them, Crowley _screams_.

Beelzebub, shaking with effort, looks back.

Crowley is on the ground, one leg speared by the creature’s clawed fingers. He’s pushed Aziraphale behind him as the creature, balanced on pale, spindly legs, rises above them both. It’s speaking, void-black mouth stretched in that wide, unsettling grin.

“Poor, poor demon,” it croons, and presses the claw deeper. “Abandoned by God. Left to rot in Hell. And then you didn’t even fit in there did you? What kind of outcast doesn’t even fit in with the _outcasts?”_

The claw twists and Crowley gasps.

Beelzebub closes their eyes, clenching aching muscles in an effort to remain upright. If they are going to escape, it’s now or never.

“I do want the angel,” the creature says, it’s porcelain face looming over Crowley, “but don’t you worry _demon_ \- I’ll mercifully end _your_ miserable existence.”

Beelzebub moves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A creature calling itself Entropy is revealed! It seems to have plans to end this universe, and has already single handedly conquered both Heaven and Hell (yikes). Entropy intends to use Aziraphale and to kill Crowley, and Beelzebub is left with a choice. Beelzebub will…
> 
> 1\. Fight. Mustering their remaining strength, Beelzebub will show this Entropy abomination the hell a real demon is capable of raising. It’s not that they care about Crowley (or his stupidly nice angel)….they just don’t want to feel like they owe him.
> 
> 2\. Flee. Beelzebub is a survivor. They are injured and weak and they are not about to enter into a fight they have little hope of surviving. Sorry Crowley….it’s nothing personal. (Note: this will result in an immediate POV shift)
> 
> Please comment to vote! :)
> 
> (also I love all of you who've been taking the time to explain the reasoning behind each of your votes. I have a lot of fun reading all of them!)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #1 is our winner! The votes for this one were the equivalent of the kids in the schoolyard circling up and chanting FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT.
> 
> HEY ALSO - tw: blood, minor gore, psychological manipulation.

Entropy climbs over Crowley, its white, spider-thin legs all but encircling him. The demon’s thigh is speared by one of the creature’s cruelly twisting claws, and is pinned to the floor.

Beelzebub should go.

The smart choice is to go.

“I do want the angel,” Entropy says, looming over the felled demon and angel. “but don’t you worry demon - I’ll mercifully end your miserable existence.”

A clawed hand curls over Crowley’s head, and Beelzebub can’t help but recall the cracks that spread over the angel Sandalphon, fracturing the powerful angel like cheap ceramic.

Crowley gasps, and Beelzebub twitches, looking from Crowley, to the unconscious Aziraphale, and finally, to the archangel Gabriel, collapsed helplessly over the fountain, his golden blood mixing with water.

“_Fucking shit_,” Beelzebub breathes, hating _everything_. Steeling themself, they turn their back on the door.

Taking one limping step, then another, Beelzebub lifts a clammy hand, pressing it against their chest. Beneath curling fingers, they feel the trembling pool of infernal heat at their core - and with a strangled shout, _pull_.

The lamps lining the courtyard flicker - then pop - exploding one by one in storms of sparks and glass. 

Gasping, Beelzebub doubles over, hunching as midnight wings unfurl. From clenched hands, nails harden into claws, razor’s edges slicing into skin. Around the prince of Hell, flies swarm in a black, biting cloud.

The creature looks up as Beelzebub roars.

Entropy rises, but Beelzebub is already across the courtyard, shattered flagstone exploding in their wake. The creature’s doll white face swivels - and Beelzebub’s black claws slam into its forehead and twist. Snarling, Beelzebub wrenches, flinging the creature into the nearest wall.

Beelzebub is burning from the inside out, the last vestiges of Hellfire crackling beneath their skin. They feel light, delirious, and very, very angry.

“Beelzebub?”

Panting, Beelzebub glances back.

Crowley, one hand braced on his bloodied leg, stares, open mouthed and wide eyed. “How’re you-”

“I’m going to _destroy_ this bitch,” Beelzebub says, staggering. “And _you_,” they stab a finger at him, “are going to grab the idiot angels and get all of your dumbasses out of here.”

Crowley’s yellow eyes are studying them, and he looks alarmingly like he wants to say something. 

Beelzebub, who doesn’t have time to deal with Crowley and his bloody _useless_ words, turns away, jabbing their middle finger over their shoulder. Putting Crowley and the angels and every single other _pointless_ distraction out of mind, Beelzebub stalks toward the Entropy shaped hole in the wall.

By Beelzebub’s estimation, the Hellfire fueled energy surge is going to last a whopping three minutes maximum. They’ll have to eviscerate the creature before that time is up.

“No problem,” Beelzebub says, spitting blood.

Blade-sharp claws slither out of the hole in the stone. The pale creature glides out of the cracked wall, spindly limbs driving them forward. It’s white forehead is ripped with jagged wounds; jet black ichor pours forth, painting smeared lines down it’s porcelain face. Tilting its head, it smiles, and the wide, terrifying void of its mouth swallows up the bottom half of its chin.

“Shoo fly,” it says, black eyes gleaming.

Beelzebub attacks. 

They don’t bother thinking - not when Entropy moves faster than even their demon eyes can follow. Wings spread and claws raking, Beelzebub defers to instinct. When one of Entropy’s limbs lands too close, Beelzebub lunges and _bites_. Using teeth and claws, they _rip_the pale limb from its body.

It shrieks and Beelzebub leaps back, spitting black ichor.

Void black lips curl over stained incisors, and Beelzebub’s grin is part animal and all teeth. “You came into _my_ Hell. Used _my_ leader. Hurt _my_ demons,” Beelzebub rasps, drinking in the creature's screams.

A limb shoots out, fingers raking. 

Beelzebub leaps back. They’re one hundredth of a second too slow.

Fingers like razors punch through the demon’s shoulder and out the other side. 

Dark blood spays the flagstone, and Beelzebub wrenches up and back, tearing the narrow appendage out of their flesh. Around the wound, Beelzebub’s skin flakes into black dust.

Clutching their shoulder, Beelzebub launches back, narrowly avoiding Entropy’s next strike.

Halfway across the courtyard, Beelzebub skids to a halt. Heaving shallow, uneven breaths, they survey the creature, assessing.

One limb down. Seven to go.

They’ll need to get in close.

“So much _anger_,” Entropy says, it’s layered voice horrible and saccharine. Across the courtyard, it’s pale face tilts to the side. Round, unblinking eyes study Beelzebub as the thing says, “Though I understand _why_ you’re angry.”

Beelzebub presses a burning hand to their shoulder, grimacing as their flesh sears together. “Yes,” they growl between clenched teeth, “_dickwad_, I’m angry because you-”

“Oh no no no,” Entropy interrupts with a laugh like shattering glass. “Not _me_. At yourself.”

Beelzebub’s shoulder gives a final sizzle and they let their smoking hand fall. “Enough bullshit-”

“Tell me, Beelzebub, _prince_ of Hell,” Entropy croons, “who really, honestly _cares_ about you?”

“The _fuck?_” Beelzebub spits, and shakes their hands until they ignite.

“No no, hear me out,” the creature says, laughing. “First, your_ all loving_ God decides they don’t care to forgive you. So you go and forge a place for yourself in Hell, rising up in Satan’s army, fighting and killing your way to power. Only once you’ve got the power you spend _centuries fighting again and again_, always looking over your shoulder, always knowing that_ any one _of those demons would happily destroy you for just a _taste_ of power.” The thing grins, black streaks of ichor twisting in a horrifying mask. “Don’t you ever get _tired?”_

Beelzebub rocks back, pain blossoming, taking root not in their shoulder, but in that insidious, narrow space behind their ribs. 

_Fuck._

Snapping back onto the balls of their feet, Beelzebub pants, letting the flames climb their forearms. “I’m _tired_ of waiting to rip you_ limb from fucking limb_,” they snarl, and ravenous flies burst from between the black feathers on their wings. 

Beelzebub follows the flies. As their pets bite at Entropy, burrowing into it’s skin, Beelzebub launches into the air with a blood curdling cry. Claws aflame, Beelzebub rakes two brutal slices down Entropy’s macilent sides.

Beelzebub snaps a sharp look up, eager to revel in this monster’s _pain_. 

The screams don’t come.

Beelzebub stares into an eternities wide smile.

Two hands punch out. One spears through Beelzebub’s good shoulder, and the other goes through a leg.

Entropy shoves Beelzebub into stone. It cracks around them as the creature’s two limbs pin them to the ground, like an insect on display. Their skin flashes hot and cold, and Beelzebub shakes because _everything_ is burning.

Entropy climbs over them, long limbs pinning them in. When it’s pale, laughing face looms over them, Beelzebub spits.

The creature doesn’t react, apart from a slight tilting of the head.

Beelzebub heaves another shuddering breath and jerks to and fro - which only serves to shift the hands spearing their flesh. Back arching, Beelzebub screams.

And the creature is laughing, shaking with mirth.

“Oh this is precious. You know, I’d keep you. But at this point, you’re nowhere near strong enough to survive as a vessel. _I’d_ tear _you_ limb from limb.”

Beelzebub spits again. “_I’ll kill you_,” the say, and mean it - because they’ve never lost a fight and they _can’t they can’t they can’t -_

Needle-like fingers slide up Beelzebub’s face in a mocking caress.

“Darling,” Entropy breathes, “You have known nothing but _pain_. But _everything_ falls apart. Everything spreads until it is eventually nothing. Let me dismantle you. I’ll save you from the pain of _miserable_ existence.”

“Fuck you.” Beelzebub lunges up, swiping at its face.

Entropy casually knocks the hand aside, and a bladed appendage stabs through Beelzebub’s palm, pinning it above their head.

Beelzebub bites into their tongue to hold back the scream. 

Entropy leans in. Mouth gaping, they hover over Beelzebub as fingers like needles hold the demon’s face.

“Whatever _the fuck _you want from me-”

“What I want,” Entropy says, soft as a breeze, “is to understand how you’ve kept from falling apart - knowing that no one in all this wide, wide universe loves you.”

“What?”

The white face tilts. “Oh come now. I can see right through you. _You_know God doesn’t love you. The demon’s don’t really even _trust _you. And the angels certainly don’t care for your existence. So,” it stops, licking its lips. “When everything in the universe - every inch of energy - is spread to nothingness, there will be no pain, _no loneliness_, Beelzebub. All will be nothing,” it breathes, rapturous. 

Beelzebub isn’t listening. They’re not -_ they’re not._

“Yes you are,” it says, laughing again, and it’s big black eyes are staring down, practically swallowing Beelzebub up. “Oh it’s going to be _delicious_ smearing you across the universe.”

Beelzebub shudders, snarling and kicking, but it’s no use because that mouth is stretching and the needle sharp fingers are prickling, digging in and - and - _and -_

Cold metal flashes and the creature’s head tips and rolls, bouncing grotesquely off stone.

The cold, alien body sways, then topples, following after the head.

Beelzebub stares blearily at the cloven head, gaze sluggishly shifting to the rich brown loafers cautiously prodding the thing’s jaw.

“I don’t know about you, but_ I_ was getting _really_ tired of that voice,” Gabriel says, leaning heavily on his sword. One of the archangel’s arms dangles, bloody and useless and a thick gash runs down the side of his face - all the way from forehead to chin.

Beelzebub blinks, and since coherent thoughts don’t seem to be making themselves available, settles for a few more moments of blankly staring.

In a detached sort of way, Beelzebub watches as Gabriel’s dumb face does something complicated. And then he’s kicking the head aside. The sword clatters to the ground as he kneels reaching-

That snaps Beelzebub out of it.

_“Don’t touch me!”_

Gabriel actually _jumps_ back.

Gritting their teeth, Beelzebub hauls their free hand up. With a savage scream, they tear the spear out of their shoulder. Panting, they get the one in their hand next. And finally, their leg.

Forcibly ignoring the fact that every _inch_ of them is a pulsating mass of pain, Beelzebub shoves up, rising into an agonizingly uncomfortable crouch. They grit their teeth.

Gabriel is looking at them and his expression is still _complicated_ and Beelzebub _hates it._

“How much did you hear?” Beelzebub says, flat. Hand pressed against their shoulder, Beelzebub draws shallow, uneven breaths and waits.

Gabriel blinks twice, and then he’s shaking his head. “Nothing,” he says, light.

Beelzebub’s lip curls because that's a _load of shit_ if they’ve ever heard one. “You-”

A sharp voice interrupts them.

“Hey Beezy! You alright there?”

The voice is Crowley’s and Beelzebub honestly can’t decide if they hate Gabriel or Crowley more at this very moment.

Whipping around, Beelzebub hisses, “_You_ were supposed to _run_. And I said _no nicknames!_”

Crowley is at the courtyard’s edge. He’s got an arm around Aziraphale, who finally seems to have awoken, and is holding him upright.

“Well, you see - I was going to,” Crowley calls back, “And then you started getting the living shit beaten out of you. So I slapped the archangel till he woke up.”

At that, Gabriel cuts a frankly murderous look in Crowley’s direction.

Aziraphale, who does seem to be slightly more conscious than not, grabs a fistful of Crowley’s shirt.

Beelzebub is gathering the energy to tell the lot of them to _fuck right off_, when the ground begins to shiver.

Stiffening, Beelzebub snaps to attention.

From the creature’s severed head, ephemeral tendrils spread. When the first tendril touches it’s body, Entropy gasps, and the body rapidly begins knitting itself together. As Beelzebub watches, a new limb sprouts, replacing the one they had torn off.

“I don’t think….it can be destroyed in….the usual ways,” Aziraphale says, hoarse.

“Shit,” Beelzebub breathes, watching Entropy slowly rise.

“Again! Cut off the sucker’s head again!” Crowley shouts.

“We need to go,” Aziraphale calls. “_Now._”

Gabriel reaches for the sword. “I’ll smite the sonofabitch.”

Entropy, black eyes gleaming with renewed life, smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beelzebub, despite managing to put up a fierce fight against Entropy, was eventually defeated. Gabriel, awoken by Crowley’s repeated slaps, saved Beelzebub, though not before Entropy cruelly laid bare the demon’s fears. The survivors are weak and Entropy has revealed regenerative abilities. As Entropy repairs itself, a slew of suggestions are shouted, and Beelzebub decides….
> 
> 1\. To listen to Crowley. Grabbing the sword from Gabriel, Beelzebub attempts to cut off the damn thing’s head. At the very least, it will give them time to come up with a better solution - and probably won’t make anything worse?
> 
> 2\. To listen to Aziraphale. As much as Beelzebub hates to admit it, this thing is way out of their league. They need to run, rest, and regroup. Though escaping may not be easy...
> 
> 3\. To listen to Gabriel. Beelzebub knows not to get in the way of an archangel’s smiting. And while Beelzebub doubts a smiting will do the job, it probably can’t hurt to let Gabriel give it a try. Right??
> 
> 4\. To listen to none of them because they’re all idiots and at this point, Beelzebub is running on pure spite. It may not be the best choice, but Beelzebub is going to punch the creature in it’s jackass face. They’ll figure the rest out from there. (Note: for my anxious voters! This option will NOT kill Beelzebub (nor will the other options). The last chapter was definitely a rough one, and I honestly just wanted to give y’all the option of seeing Beelzebub just straight up deck this dude).
> 
> Please comment to vote! :) 
> 
> Things are dark now, but I promise I have voting options to add some much needed humor, levity, and team bonding planned soon!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #2 definitely won! BUT...#4 was a pretty close second. So punch and run it is!

Entropy, rising up, tilts its head and smiles a wide, infinitely deep grin. Pale, ephemeral tendrils squirm where the creature’s head and neck are rapidly reconnecting.

Gabriel has picked up the sword and is twisting it up.

Beelzebub, however, beats him to the punch. Literally.

“_Mine_,” is all Beelzebub manages, a low, rasping shout. Pushing roughly in front of the archangel, Beelzebub winds a bloodied fist back and strikes.

Their knuckles smack between its eyes - and with a wet sounding _squelch_, the head which hadn’t yet fully re-attached, flies off Entropy’s shoulders.

This time, however, Entropy seems to retain consciousness, and the head screeches in outrage as it careens across the room.

“Shoo, bitch,” Beelzebub spits.

“_My angels_,” the head shrieks, rolling across the floor. “Your master commands you! _Attack!_”

From the top of the courtyard, where tiled roofs curve above stone carved archways, movement draws Beelzebub’s gaze up.

Angels line the tile rooftop, their formidable white wings spread wide. In the place where the angels’ eyes should be, dark, sunken pools hauntingly stare.

From behind Beelzebub, Gabriel makes a low noise of distress.

Beelzebub scans the faces. There are none they readily recognize - Michael and Uriel, at least, are absent. But surely most of the dark eyed angels are - or _were_ \- under Gabriel’s command.

“No…” the archangel breathes.

Forcibly ignoring the pain they feel radiating off Gabriel in cold, nauseating waves, Beelzebub shakes their head and, squeezing their hands into fists, cracks their knuckles one by one.

“What _are they?_” Aziraphale asks, horror lacing his words.

The first angel steps from the rooftop. Where it lands, stone splinters around its feet. From its eyes, black ichor drips, trailing like tears down its pure, celestial skin. It takes a second step, and the floor cracks anew.

“That,” Crowley says, speaking up from the back, “looks like an angel on steroids. Bloody _evil_ steroids.”

Another angel drops. Then another. Gray dust from pulverized stone rises in an ominous cloud.

“I - I have to-” Gabriel is muttering, and Beelzebub can feel him moving behind them, probably making up his mind to do something _stupid_.

“Yeah,” Beelzebub says, surveying the hoard of freaky angels. “Fuck this noise.”

Turning right _the hell _around, Beelzebub grabs Gabriel roughly by the arm. 

When he doesn’t move - _like the absolute asshole he is_ \- Beelzebub grits their teeth and _yanks_, violently hauling the lead-limbed archangel with them. When they look up and see that Aziraphale and Crowley are _still_ standing there, waiting, they yell, “Oi! Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum! _Fucking move!_”

Crowley and Aziraphale retreat through the doorway, but go no further.

Beelzebub is panting, blood from a cut they didn’t even realize they had dripping into their eyes, and the room is tilting as a frankly _annoying_ whine picks up in their ears - but this is no time to pass out, so Beelzebub doesn’t. 

At least Gabriel is finally moving; Beelzebub, all too happy to release him, shoves the archangel through the door. 

Upon crossing the threshold, Beelzebub is hastily elbowed out of the way by Crowley; Aziraphale, bracing a hand on the wall, traces glowing symbols on the floor.

“What’s-”

“That’s _why_ we were waiting,” Crowley snaps.

Beelzebub reflects that if the room were spinning any less, they would have happily smacked that smug look off his face.

Instead, they crouch, bracing their hands on their knees.

Aziraphale straightens up with a satisfied nod. “That’ll do the trick.”

Then Crowley is swinging the door closed. Hand on the handle, he melts the lock. 

“If Aziraphale did what I think he did, we do _not_ want to be here when they cross that threshold,” Crowley says.

“I did,” Aziraphale says with a grim smile.

Gabriel, who Beelzebub thinks is looking more like his usual insufferable self by the minute, claps his hands together. “Then let’s fucking go!”

“Right!” Crowley crows, pointing at Gabriel, “Your _illicit_ sneaking out of Heaven door!”

Beelzebub and Aziraphale turn to look at Gabriel.

“Okay it’s really not as weird as he’s making it sound.”

“It doesn’t matter-” Aziraphale says with a wave, but Beelzebub isn’t listening.

Blinking rapidly, they frown at the black dots blossoming across their vision. They immediately blink _harder_ because they are _not_ going to pass out; It is a fucking _bad_ time for losing consciousness - and besides, they’d honestly rather _die_ than look weak in front of these morons.

Crowley is turning, leading the way, and Beelzebub starts to step after him - when _everything_ takes a sharp and sudden dip. 

And _shit -_ Beelzebub thinks, consciousness slipping as a roaring white noise fills their ears. Blackness is spreading, sweeping across their vision.

They see outstretched, reaching hands - and then darkness swallows them whole.

Reality narrows to individual, isolated moments.

The press of fine, soft as silk fabric against their cheek.

A long hallway lit by a single flickering light.

Aziraphale, pale with purple bruises beneath his eyes, pulling a tapestry aside - pushing a doorway open.

Crowley’s hands cupped around that strange, blue flame.

Then white light - at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

Beelzebub stiffens, crying out in protest - because_ they know the saying about light and tunnels_, and they straight up _refuse_ to let that prick Death lay those frigid hands on them _now_.

This is followed by the soft, hesitant brush of fingers over their forehead and a whisper-soft murmur. “Don’t worry. It’s not that kind of tunnel.”

Again, darkness.

And then Crowley is exclaiming, shouting excitedly, and Beelzebub squints their eyes open to glaring sunlight - and a sleek black car, parked on what appears to be a random London street corner. 

When someone swings one of the rear doors open, Beelzebub has a sense of deja vu as they are laid down on black leather seats.

Voices drone, someone shifts beside them, and the car awakens with a reassuring purr; Beelzebub’s tired eyes close.

* * *

Brushing his hands over the steering wheel, Crowley sits in the Bentley, taking a moment to enjoy the car’s energetic rumble. She doesn’t handle long periods of idleness very well. And though Crowley hasn’t been gone all that long, he imagines it must have been rather demoralizing to have been abandoned on a lonesome countryside road. He’ll have to make sure she’s still in working shape. 

“Just cause I gave you a little vacation,” Crowley says, tapping the dashboard admonishingly, “is no excuse for any slacking off,_ you understand?_”

The car rumbles, and Crowley sighs, rolling his eyes. “_See? _I leave you for half a day and now I’m getting _back talk_.”

“Can we _please_ just fucking go?” Gabriel snaps.

A glance in the rear-view mirror reveals the altogether unpleasant sight of Gabriel’s frowning face. 

The archangel is pressed up against the door, his large arms folded impractically in front of him. 

Beelzebub, in the few minutes after they’d been set down, had somehow completely rotated, and now they stretch out, arms flung out in either direction. Their booted feet are kicked up - one jabbing Gabriel’s side and the other shoved up against his face.

The archangel glowers.

From the passenger seat, Aziraphale clears his throat.

Crowley’s attention is immediately diverted.

Aziraphale is battered. Deep scratches scatter over the entirety of his person, and a bone deep exhaustion shows in his overall pallor and the bags like dark bruises gathering beneath his light eyes. 

Crowley has the impulse to stroke a thumb beneath that gentle gaze and burn a miracle to soothe some of the exhaustion marring his skin. 

He doesn’t.

Because he filled Aziraphale’s veins with demon blood, and Crowley isn’t entirely sure Aziraphale won’t come to resent him for it. 

The desperate transfusion had worked. Aziraphale is _here_. That is what matters. But the fact that the cost of this gamble - _the cost_ of mixing that which was never meant to join - has yet to reveal itself, leaves Crowley deeply on edge. 

“Dear,” Aziraphale says, mercifully interrupting Crowley’s rapidly spiraling thoughts. “We fled the bookshop earlier because we believed we were dealing with a threat who knew us, personally. Entropy does not know us. And I presume that it does not know where I live.”

“...you want to go home, don’t you?”

“Yes I want to go home!” Aziraphale says in a rush, hands folded, his fingers twisting together. “It’s been a _really_ long day.”

Crowley considers, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “I suppose we could ward the hell out of it.”

Aziraphale is eagerly nodding, “I already have a good few around the foundation as it is.”

“Is it defensible?” Gabriel asks.

“Better,” Aziraphale replies. “It’s hidden.”

“Though adding a few defenses wouldn’t hurt,” Crowley adds.

“As long as we get off the damned street,” Gabriel says with a weary sigh.

“That, we can do,” Crowley says, shifting the car into drive. 

“Wait!” Aziraphale says, grabbing Crowley’s arm. “First, we need _food_, Crowley.”

“....right this second?”

“As soon as possible. You do realize that we should avoid using powerful miracles at the moment, right?”

Crowley glances in the rear-view mirror, only somewhat mollified to see that Gabriel is also staring at Aziraphale with an expression of blatant confusion.

“Er - yes? I mean, we don’t want to go around putting beacons on our heads,” Crowley replies. “But what in the world does this have to do with _food?_”

Aziraphale is staring at him like he might be stupid - which _he’s not. Right?_

Crowley checks the rear-view mirror again.

Gabriel is squinting at Aziraphale. “Aziraphale. _What_ are you talking about?”

Aziraphale looks between them, mouth agape.

From the backseat, Beelzebub groans. 

“Angel,” Beelzebub says, cracking an eye reluctantly open, “They’re both idiots. Don’t… strain their brains.”

Aziraphale glances back, relief evident. “_You_ know what I’m talking about.”

“_Of course_ I know what you’re talking about!” Beelzebub replies, and the other eye opens to a menacing slit. “Food strengthens your _bloody corporation_. You. Are. Living. In. It. So fucking feed it. The stronger your corporation is - the stronger _you_ are.”

Aziraphale is nodding vigorously. “And we are all _very_ injured. Beelzebub especially. A good meal will help kick start our angelic - and demonic - healing.”

“Ah,” is all Crowley manages.

“Honestly, dear. You really didn’t know that?”

Crowley, who will frankly never admit that he played hookie during the body orientation seminar to check out the strange angel he’d seen walking up on Eden’s wall, adjusts his glasses and shrugs. “I’m a demon. What’s the archangel’s excuse?”

“Corporeal bodies are _not_ my department.”

Beelzebub blows a raspberry.

“Since you’re awake, _your highness - _mind moving your _foot_ out of my_ face_?”

Beelzebub’s only reply is a long, deep snore.

Crowley shuts both of them up by jerking the car into motion.

Food it is!” Crowley says, foot sinking satisfyingly down on the gas pedal. “And I know just where to take us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The angels and demons have managed to escape Heaven and flee from Entropy. Before holing up at Aziraphale’s bookshop and deciding their next move - Aziraphale insists they get something to eat. Crowley decides the best place to get a couple of angels and demons lunch is…
> 
> 1\. The grocery store! Crowded around a single cart, they will shuffle round the aisles of the local grocery mart, exploring the strange wonders of fluorescent illuminated human cuisine. 
> 
> 2\. The Ritz! Sitting elbow to elbow around a pristine white tablecloth, they will be sipping at champagne and making awkward small talk. Probably nothing will catch fire.
> 
> 3\. The drive thru! Packed in the Bentley, Crowley will drive them all to the greasiest of fast food establishments. With all three speaking at once, Crowley will attempt to order.
> 
> Please comment to vote! :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #3 wins! Once again, we’re going with the most chaotic option and I am absolutely here for it.

It is late, and the streets of London are quiet and tired when the Bentley growls into the barren parking lot. Overhead, garish yellow arches glow, a lackluster flickering beacon in the darkness.

Aziraphale glances up - and then back at the restaurant, and heaves a long, deep sigh. “Oh dear.”

“Oh _fuck yes_,” Beelzebub crows, sitting up.

“McDonald’s,” Gabriel says, voice flat with disinterest. “Is that one of yours...?”

“Oh yeah, yep,” Crowley answers, steering them into the drive through. The giant, back-lit menu bathes the passengers of the car in a dull, white glow.

By the time Crowley remembers to roll down the window, the speaker is crackling and hissing and a tired voice is saying, “_-your order. Would you like to try our new Triple Grand Big Mac? It comes with triple the bacon and triple the cheese._”

“Just uh, give us a sec please,” Crowley says, and looks to Aziraphale first. “Angel, what do you-”

“_I want _the new Triple Grand Big Mac!” Beelzebub says, leaning over the front seat. Dark blood is still dripping down the side of their face, and Crowley recoils as it splatters on the car’s dark leather.

_“Watch it with the blood!_”

Shifting to see around Beelzebub, Aziraphale sighs and hums, fidgeting as he looks at the menu. “Well...perhaps the wrap? Hm...no. No. Never mind.”

Crowley feels hot breath horrifyingly near to the base of his neck, and glances back to see Gabriel’s awful face pressing up on his right, attempting to peer out the driver’s side window.

“What the _hell_, Gabriel!” Crowley snarls, jerking back - only to bump into Beelzebub, who is still very much leaking blood. “Oh, come on - _gross._”

“What is...a _McFlurry?_” Gabriel asks ponderously from Crowley’s right, as Beelzebub shouts, “And I want _one hundred_ chicken nuggets!”

“Listen,” Crowley replies, grimacing as he wipes blood off his shoulder, “they’re not gonna be able to make_ a hundred chicken_ _nuggets_. It’ll take too long-”

“Perhaps...the veggie dippers?” Aziraphale mutters and shudders. “Though maybe it would be best if-”

_“Um - excuse me?” _The voice from the speaker crackles. _“Do you, uh, need help, sir?”_

“No, no - we’re-”

“_Yes_,” Gabriel says, interrupting. “Listen. My body is _a temple_, and I will only soil it with the _purest_ nutriments. Do you understand?”

From the speaker, comes a long, buzzing silence.

_“So you’re um...like a vegan?”_

“Veeegan,” Gabriel says, sounding it out.

“Oh my God,” Crowley groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I want _fifty_ cheeseburger Happy Meals,” Beelzebub demands, leaning over Crowley. “And don’t you _dare_ leave out the toys!”

_“Sorry? You want fifty-”_

“Do you think they could make me a _deconstructed_ burger?” Aziraphale muses.

“If I am going to debase myself with _food_, it must be organic, sugar free, have no preservatives, be keto friendly-”

“And give me forty-five ice cream cones - _with the flakes!_”

_“Excuse me - what?!”_

“-of course no trans fats, no GMOs, no partially hydrogenated soybean oil-”

“...perhaps I could request they leave off the pickles. The acidity really does tend to bring down the entire flavor profile-”

“-and seventy no - _eighty_ hash browns! I want them double fried, no_ triple_-”

“That is….ENOUGH!” Crowley shouts, laying his hand on the horn; and finally, the car’s passengers go completely and mercifully silent.

_“...sir?”_ The voice from the speaker squeaks out, hesitant.

“Yeah, sorry about all that. I’m ready now.”

Ten minutes later, the Bentley rolls out of the drive through.

Aziraphale sits, lips pursed, with a salad in his lap and a large milkshake balanced between his knees. Beelzebub is slouched with several greasy boxes of nuggets between their legs and an ice cream cone in each fist. Beside them, Gabriel sits, lips curling in disgust as he peers suspiciously at the baggies of baby carrots scattered over his lap. 

Crowley, black coffee in hand and a small, greasy bag of fries set beside him, takes a long, slow sip of the drink. He clears his throat, and says with a measure of defeat, “Okay, yeah, fine - I’ll pop over to the store later to get us some better food.”

“Oh thank Heavens,” Aziraphale sighs; giving Crowley a conciliatory smile, he takes a dainty sip of his shake.

By the time they pull up in front of the bookshop, the car is littered with fast food wrappers, and Crowley sits in his seat, glaring, until quick hands snatch up the trash. 

_“Thank you_,” he mutters, and shoves open the door.

So eager is Crowley to return to the well worn sofas and sleepy warmth of Aziraphale’s bookshop, that he doesn’t even consider the possibility of enemies or _traps_ until his hand is on the door. 

Fingers twisting around door handles, he halts. Aziraphale bumps into his back with a muffled noise of shock.

“Crowley-?” Aziraphale asks, pressing a warm, steady hand against his back.

Lowering his glasses, Crowley shifts to the side and takes a long, scrutinizing look through the dim windows. 

It’s unlikely that Entropy would know to find them here. But...they’d underestimated the void creature before - and they were in no shape to fight their way out of a trap. 

“Wait here,” Crowley says, glancing back at Aziraphale. “I’m gonna check it out. Make sure no one’s lying in wait.”

“Not by yourself, you’re not!” Aziraphale protests, reaching for his arm.

Crowley turns a considering look at the company crowding his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before they can retreat into the safety of Aziraphale’s bookshop, Crowley needs to verify that it IS actually still safe and there aren’t traps or enemies lying in wait. Aziraphale insists that he shouldn’t go alone, and Crowley decides…
> 
> 1\. To take Aziraphale with him to check the shop for dangers. Aziraphale is injured, but a part of Crowley would rather they stick together. Besides, if something is lying in wait, Crowley would give his life before he allowed harm to come to Aziraphale. Team Ineffable Husbands is a go!
> 
> 2\. To take Gabriel with him to check the shop for dangers. Okay, yes, Crowley does technically hate Gabriel. But Gabriel is less injured than both Aziraphale and Beelzebub, and the archangel does still have an ethereal sword up his metaphysical sleeve. Crowley is willing to put up with Gabriel if it means keeping Aziraphale out of harm’s way. Team Inimical Assholes is a go!
> 
> 3\. To take Beelzebub with him to check the shop for dangers. Beelzebub annoys Crowley slightly less than Gabriel, and despite their injuries, Beelzebub is a powerful ally to have in a fight and seems to have a nose for sniffing out enemies. Team Awkward Demons is a go!
> 
> 4\. To go in alone, despite Aziraphale’s protests. Aziraphale is injured and Crowley would rather face any potential traps knowing that Aziraphale is safely out of harm’s way. He doesn’t need backup anyway. Team... just Crowley is a go!
> 
> Please comment to vote! :)
> 
> And yes, McDonald’s does actually sell tiny baggies of carrots.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #1 is our winner! Crowley and Aziraphale are investigating the bookshop together - and will finally get a moment to themselves.

Crowley looks between Aziraphale and the bookshop, considering.

“Darling, it’s _my_ shop. I’ll know better than anyone if something’s amiss inside.”

And Crowley has to admit, he does have a point there.

“Alright. Fine. But we should stick together.”

“I certainly won’t say no to that,” Aziraphale answers with a smile.

They are interrupted by Gabriel’s frustrated groan. “If you two are done flirting, I’d love to get inside, preferably sometime _today_.”

“We’re not -” Aziraphale stammers, “I mean, what I’m trying to say is-”

“What he’s trying to say is, shut your fat mouth,” Crowley snaps. 

“What I’m _trying_ to say,” Aziraphale says with an exasperated look at Crowley, “is that you two should guard the door. Ensure that Entropy has not trailed us.”

“Aziraphale, _you_ can’t tell _me_-” Gabriel starts.

“Yes, _fine_, principality” Beelzebub cuts in. “We’ll do it. Just go.”

Gabriel shoots an angry, affronted look at Beelzebub.

Beelzebub, arms crossed over their chest, glares up at the archangel.

Tension gathers, thick on the air, and Crowley reflects that Gabriel and Beelzebub are both firmly entrenched in Heaven and Hell’s respective ideologies - far more so than he or Aziraphale ever were.

“You’re siding with _him_?” Gabriel questions, eyes narrowing to dangerous slits.

“I side with whoever happens to be _right_,” Beelzebub replies, and tilts their bloodied chin defiantly up as if to say, _what of it?_

“Oh _thank you_,” Aziraphale says.

When Beelzebub and Gabriel’s dark glares shift to Aziraphale, Crowley automatically steps up behind his angel, ready to lend his support - or yank Aziraphale out of their reach.

“This is _stupid_,” Crowley says. “We just need to safely get inside. Is that really more than four millennia old beings can manage?”

“_I’ll_ keep watch out here,” Beelzebub announces. “Gabriel can do what he likes.” Grimacing, they roughly wipe at the blood dripping down the side of their face. “_I_ don’t need the help of a bloody _archangel_.”

Crowley doubts that is true, considering Beelzebub was very recently skewered, but he isn’t going to argue - not when Beelzebub is glaring like _that_.

Touching Aziraphale’s arm, Crowley moves to the door. It opens with a soft squeak, and the dark, dusty bookshop waits beyond.

When Crowley steps gingerly inside, he can feel Aziraphale’s steady presence pressing up behind him. 

From the sidewalk outside, Gabriel clears his throat.

“_I’ve decided_,” Gabriel says, pointedly looking anywhere but at the glowering demon beside him, “That you morons can handle this. I’m of more use out here.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Crowley says, and swings the door closed. “Asshole.”

“That was kind of him,” Aziraphale says softly. “Not to leave Beelzebub alone.”

“Probably just didn’t want us to outnumber him two to one.”

Aziraphale hums thoughtfully in reply.

In the ensuing silence, he and Aziraphale turn cautious looks over the darkened shop.

“Sense anything?” Crowley asks, stepping just near enough to Aziraphale that their coat sleeves brush.

“Not yet,” Aziraphale answers.

“Me neither.”

“It’s dark. Should I risk turning on the lights?”

“Better not,” Crowley answers. “Besides, I can see just fine.”

“That’s all well and good for _you_, dear. I know my shop well, but I’m less confident about my ever shifting piles of books. Sometimes I swear they like to rearrange themselves on their own. The last thing I need is to fall flat on my face.”

“Here,” Crowley says, reaching out before he can think better of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Crowley and Aziraphale navigate the darkened bookshop, Crowley’s demon eyes have no trouble seeing in the dark. To help Aziraphale, Crowley…
> 
> 1\. ...trails his hand down Aziraphale’s arm. Fingers tracing soft knuckles, then down the length of Aziraphale’s hand, he lifts it up, gently placing it on his shoulder. He shivers when he feels Aziraphale’s thumb brush the nape of his neck and the heat of the angel’s palm on his shoulder. “Angel, I-” Crowley says, voice nearly cracking. “I’ll show you the way.” (It’s all about innocently intimate brushes of skin)
> 
> 2\. ...leans toward Aziraphale. Their arms bump. Trailing the back of his knuckles down Aziraphale’s sleeve, he reaches for the angel’s hand, but stops, thinking better of it. Trembling fingers trace the angel’s wrist, and he can feel Aziraphale’s breath on his cheek, but he doesn’t dare lean in closer. Beneath Crowley’s thumb, Aziraphale’s pulse dances. Fingers encircling Aziraphale’s wrist, Crowley gently tugs. “I’ll keep you from falling, angel.” (it’s all about painfully tender pining)
> 
> 3\. ...reaches out in the darkness. Knuckles bumping Aziraphale’s, he takes a breath, and fumblingly interlocks their fingers. Aziraphale’s hand is warm, and his fingers brush carefully, tentatively, over the back of Crowley’s hand. Crowley swallows, voice rougher than he’d like. “Is... this okay, angel?” (It’s all about nervous touches and soft, soft hand holding)
> 
> Thank you all for reading and voting! This fic wouldn’t be possible without all of you! Comment to vote! :)


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